Artistic License
by Iseijin
Summary: Two artists; one searching for inspiration for a movie blockbuster, another searching for prey and trophies. A battle of wits in which only one will get what they came for.
1. Sharpening the Pencils

Disclaimer: All known characters belong to their respective owner(s); unknown characters belong to me. I am not making any profit from this project. Any questionable and potentially offensive statements are for plot and development purposes only and are not necessarily the thoughts of the author. This story is purely to entertain.

_**NOTE**: This chapter has undergone trough one (1) major edit – spelling, grammar, amendments, etc – on May 23, 2006, since its debut. _

_ARTISTIC LICENSE_

_By Ninkira_

CHAPTER 1 – _Sharpening the Pencils_

"I got 'im!" Yelled out a young boy from amidst the bushes. It seemed like the boy's cries were the only sounds that came from the thick evergreen forest already peppered in a light layer of snow; a sign, and warning, of the fiercer winter storms yet to come.

It was a cold September morning and the boy's voice slightly quivered as it rode on a small puff of mist from his mouth. His thick clothing protected him from the worst of the colder breezes – his mother making sure to add layer upon layer before her son left – but he still felt the light nip of frost on his skin where the ends of his clothes did not meet fully, leaving a patch of exposed skin for the cold to harass. The boy pulled his jacket's sleeves further down his arm. The hunting rifle he still gripped tightly, held close to his chest, let out a barely visible wisp of smoke from the end of the barrel.

A large gloved hand fell in the boy's shoulder. "Great job! Couldn't have done it better myself," said the deeper voice of the boy's father in almost a whisper as he kneeled next to his son, his lightly trimmed beard coated with a thin film of frost. "You might want to keep both eyes open next time though; you still tend to close one eye when you shoot."

The young boy, barely into his teen years, but already possessing a healthy amount of personality, scoffed lightly. "Who cares? I shot him anyways didn't I? Look at the way he fell. _Bam_! Can't wait to take him home! Man, that was a long time to wait…"

"That was quite a buck though, worth the wait."

"How can you tell? I could barely see it with all the trees and bushes in the way and now that it's down I can't see it at all. It could be a young one for all you know, I hope not though, I want an old one as big as a moose."

The man chuckled. "Well when you see a moose we can hunt him down too."

Crows and other birds that replaced the usual spring and summer vultures and scavengers in this frigid weather circled above the thick canopy of the naked trees where the boy's prey had fallen. The boy rushed ahead of his father, eager to see what was the size of the animal he had killed and that maybe if he could pester his mom enough he would be allowed to hang the antlers over his bed like the ones his dad had in his room. His father was a few feet behind him, trying to keep pace with the excited boy, carrying both their rifles over his wide shoulder as they made their way up the small hill to avoid crossing a large, and probably deep, puddle of frozen water. He was content that all this time of waiting his son had been rewarded with his first kill; after the entire morning had passed and still no sign of any animal, he was beginning to fear they would both go empty-handed. Until that point he had always taken his son with him to the mountains, but never actually handed him a weapon until his twelfth birthday. The boy couldn't wait to hunt.

"Hey, where is he?" asked the boy as he looked around the area where his fallen deer should have been. "But I got him!"

The father was also rather confused at the missing carcass. By his calculations there should have been a dead buck right here; it wasn't even that far a shot that they could have accidentally become disoriented on the way to collect their kill. As he looked around, he noticed that some smaller branches were bent and the disturbed layer of snow indicated prints and struggle in the ground, signifying that the animal must have at least been here at one point. "Hmm… I think you did shoot him, but just hurt him, not killed him. See? Now you know why it's important to keep both eyes open? You'll shoot twice as good and better aimed." He looked towards the thicker area of the forest, his hands on his hips. "He's probably still alive somewhere, limping along…"

"We can still get him, can't we? Can we get him?" The boy was eager to bring down his prey.

He smiled, a grin that made his eyes close. "Sure. He's got to be around here somewhere, couldn't have gotten very far."

The man placed the hunting rifles down by the base of a nearby tree to better track the injured animal without the weight of the weapons. He saw something that caught his attention. By the edge of the tree, where the rifles rested, barely touching the ground, was a large splatter of…something. It was moist and hot and trickling down the cracks of the rough bark like sap with a fine mist rising from it, but what really got him was that still strange sap-like liquid was phosphorous green, like the kind found in the glow sticks of his rave-party youth.

He took off the glove from his right hand and carefully brought two of his fingers to touch the liquid and figure out what it was. It felt warm to the touch, hot even. He brought the liquid to his nose; it smelt sweet and oily at the same time, and had to fight the urge to taste it. Odd…

Something splattered on his shoulder and he expected to find that a bird had relieved itself on him again, but found another drop of that odd green liquid on his jacket. He wiped it off as it were acid that was going to eat through his clothes. Another green drop from above forced him to look up amidst the darkened branches.

His eyes widened.

It was _huge_…and _not_ happy, cradling its injured torso with an arm as thick as a tree branch while what appeared to be large silver talons expanded from the base of its hand-like limb with a dry rasping sound.

"What the –? "

(-)

"_Fuck_! I can't believe you just flipped him off like that!"

The two women in the van laughed insanely as the large van raced past the screaming man standing besides his tiny car with the flat tire situated on the side of the road as they took a sharp turn into a dirt path up the mountain side that had a large "Private Property. Trespassers will be prosecuted," sign.

"Hey, it's not my fault he just stayed there in the middle of the road like an idiot. I almost crashed into him!" Said the driver of the vehicle; a woman with long black hair tied in a low ponytail under a baseball cap. She didn't really like baseball; in fact, she thought the whole concept of hitting a ball with a stick was dumb; now if she _really_ wanted balls to hit she wouldn't use a stick…

The other woman in the passenger seat next to the driver took one last glance back before resting again on her seat. She ran her fingers along her shoulder length chestnut hair and sighed, still laughing a bit under her breath at the small fiasco.

"Yeah, you're lucky you missed Ash. If we would have crashed…"

The driver of the van, Ash – short for Ashley, a name she hated; too girly in her opinion – interrupted her in the mildly sarcastic tone frequently shared with friends. "What? I would have delayed you for your hermit-hood? Honestly Terri, I think you're insane for doing this _every_ year. If you went once, maybe twice, every two or so years, yeah, I would be ok with it, but you go _every single year_. You do a little studying, some work, a few galleries here and there, collecting paychecks, and then you pack everything you own and move to that little house on the prairie for two months. Two! That's more than most vacation time people get a year."

The passenger named Terri chuckled. "First of all it's not a _little house on the prairie_; it's a large cabin on the mountains. You should be used to this by now, every time I go you whine –"

"I'm not whining…"

Terri quickly wrapped her arms around Ash's neck and kissed her friend on the cheek then returned to her seat, laughing, before Ashley could swat her away.

"You whine you, big baby, you know you miss me," Terri said, trying not to let the insane shaking of the van dizzy her senseless for the last leg of the trip. "Besides, I'm not there forever, I'll be back, I always do, to the city life again and back to your arms, sexy lady." She wrapped her arms around Ash again, but had more of a seductive tone to it.

Ash brushed her friend off her. "Stop that, people are starting to think we're lesbians or something."

Terri pretended to be pondering the thought. "Hmm, a female artist falling in love with her female subject…What a perfect plot for a book, as weird as it may sound. You think I can somehow put that into one of my paintings? How about for the next gallery in March? I'm doing some fantasy and science fiction crap for a big publishing house and the movie studio, and I need inspiration. _Mucho dinero_ if I get some good pieces sold."

"Isn't that why you're going to your cabin anyways? To find inspiration amidst the bugs and squirrels for two months?"

"Make that amidst the coyotes and mountain lions…and maybe a deer or two."

Ashley shook her head in disgust. "Ugh, how can you stand animals like that?"

"How can you not? You love the zoo; you practically visit it every other month. All the animals love to see you when you visit them: _Hi Ashley! We **love** you!_ they say."

"Har, har…Yeah, but there's a nice cage or panel of glass separating me from _them_. Out here any wild creature can come up to you and bite you, or scratch you, or give you ticks, and maybe some rabies to go with that dismembered arm. It seems dangerous."

"I'm not going to live a cave, there's electricity and running water in there you know. It's the same as a normal house, just on the mountains. Telephone, television, toilets, shower, Internet connection, refrigerator, and heater…the whole deal." Terri placed a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Speaking of dismembered arms, that's about how much this place cost."

"You should sell that place. You'll get some _nice_ numbers coming out of that area."

The van slowed a bit as the curves became more closed and was beginning to be harder to keep a steady wheel in the gravel road. More than once Terri checked the back of the van to make sure her equipment was not bobbing about all over the place. She and Ash had taken the entire morning that day wrapping up and tying down all of Terri's gear and tools, from the canvases to sketchbooks and pencils and everything in between, along with a few cases of fresh food to stock the refrigerator and a change of underwear to last a month. There were weather-appropriate clothes in her room at the cabin, but she also brought her share from her city home just in case.

A few minutes and many winding curves later a large wooden structure began to appear behind the thick criss-crossing of the many trees. The van pulled up to the house' front porch and lightly screeched to a halt.

"Your winter palace, madam," joked Ash as she got out of the car and stretched her sore legs for the first time in three hours of nearly non-stop driving; not counting the times they had to stop to go to the bathroom because their bladders wouldn't coincide.

Terri closed the door with a loud bang, knowing Ash cringed every time such abuse was heard from her vehicle, and took in the sight before her. The cabin did not seem to be in the best of shapes, showing its age in the form of cancerous growth of vines and dusty windowpanes, but it was much better than a rackety cottage. Terri took in a good breath of the icy air and was glad that she had worn her jacket before getting out of the warm vehicle. This was a place where Terri knew she would not be disturbed in at least one of the two months she would spend here. There was always the odd hunter or hiker that wandered a bit too far and requested shelter for a few days, and if the guy was handsome and hardy she would make sure he would want to visit again soon. There was a lot of unpacking to do but she didn't want to think about that yet. This was a place to relax, a place to cut herself off from the city and its filthy inhabitants and let her muse run free in a hygienic environment with the deer and the coyotes. Here, she knew, was where some of her best work originated, and with the big fantasy convention in March Terri wanted to create a few pieces that were _guaranteed_ to make her be able to spend another two months here again next year.

The trunk was slammed shut, the last of the pieces of luggage already inside the house, but still to be put in their correct place, and then locked with a light click from the key.

"Finally!" Ash sighed as she moved to the front of the van where Terri was waiting to bid her friend goodbye.

The girls hugged and didn't seem to want to let go.

"You old hermit," said Ash.

Terri chuckled. "You whiny baby… I'll try not to miss you too much. Celebrate our birthdays when I get back at _Charlie's_ with the guys like always, right?"

"You know it. Thirty-seven is a _beautiful_ number! Just remember that you lost the bet at the football game so you're gonna have to pay."

"… _Fine_, but I still say that was a fumble."

Ash scoffed. "Oh, he _so _caught it! You're blind, that's your problem."

Terri laughed and picked up a stick, chasing her friend around a bit before Ash threw herself in the van and locked the door, making comical faces through the window and even bending over and mooning Terri for a second.

"Oh, very mature!" Terri yelled with a laugh, then pretended like she whacked the stick across her friend's exposed rear before throwing it behind her to the forest. "Get out of here before I slash your tires and you'll be forced to live with the rabid squirrels! Go on now, get!"

Ashley waved goodbye as she backed the van a bit then turned around and left the house, and her friend, behind her. Terri would have loved it if Ashley could stay and eat a sandwich with a cup of coffee or something, but, unlike her, Ash had a job that required her to stay near the city every day, and it was getting dark soon so the girl couldn't linger around much longer; it would be another three hours back and Ash would have to get up early. What a friend; even though it was a hell to drive all the way here and back, she still managed to find the time to haul her rear end here. They had met each other through the industry – Ashley D. Romagosa being an established editor for a small graphic novel company, and Theresa Rossner working as an amateur concept artist in the movie business – and now wondered what would she have done without her partner in crime.

Night fell quickly in the shortening fall days, the moon beginning to show its silvery glow well before the sun decided to set, and before Terri knew it she had to turn on the lights only to find that at least half of them were either burnt out or broken. Either way, they had to be replaced.

With the majority of the bulbs replaced in the cabin, the place began to look more alive. Many of Terri's unfinished paintings that had been left behind were randomly decorating the hallways and rooms, either to one day be finished or forever remain incomplete. There was still the odd cobweb here and there, but the spiders were hibernating for the upcoming winter and the dusting chore could be left until tomorrow. It had been a long day and all Terri wanted to do at the moment was go up to her room and sleep for the rest of the day and all of the night, but then the unpleasant thought that her bed had yet to be prepared pestered her more than anything as another chore that could be done without, and suddenly the old sofa next to the fireplace was the most inviting thing in the world. She let her body fall to the soft pillows layering the sofa and a large cloud of dust erupted from them, invading her lungs. Terri swatted as much dust as she could away from her face, picking up a few of the dirtier ones, and was taking them to the laundry room when she passed a rather large painting of hers, next to some other smaller ones, that was partially done…

Except that it was completed.

Terri did a sort of double-take at the painting. It was a commission from a computer company, but they had changed their minds at the last minute and were willing, if not a bit desperate, to pay the artist double the original price of the commission to do another painting by the same due date. The painting depicted the frontal view of a large, proud, predatory bird about to snare a trout in its talons, but Terri vividly remembered that only the bird and the background were colored and finished; the trout in the bird's claws had been left incomplete.

But it was completed.

But she left it unfinished.

But it was _completed_.

Terri let the pillows fall from her hands. She _clearly_ remembered putting this one painting in the "incomplete" pile, next to the other partials, but here it was, out of place and done.

She shook her head. It was late; maybe she _did_ finish it and the only thing she remembered about it was leaving it to the side as she started on the other painting. There were times when Terri would finish a partial as either practice, someone else decided to buy it, or she felt like it. Perhaps this was one of those odd ones she just completed out of the heck of it and just didn't remember doing so.

Yet the painting next to it…_that_ was definitely not hers.

The almost sketchy feel of the paint strokes were wild and rough, done quickly and without hesitation. Many colors were used, almost in a sequence that didn't make much sense and strained Terri's eyes the more she stared at it. At first she couldn't tell what the hell she was looking at, but as she took a few hesitant paces back the odd lines started to form a figure, then two, until it seemed that an entire group of five was depicted. They seemed to be humanoid and male, with long, wild hair, but no clear features appeared, all was blurry and indistinct with a dark blue and orange background, and they were in full movement, doing something. Were those weapons? Each figure held a toothpick-like object. Sticks; spears maybe? It felt almost child-like, the simplicity of the drawing, but the perfect use of color and tone made it clear that no amateur created this.

But if Terri didn't do this one…who _did_?

(-)

The many tattoos that decorated his taut body were splattered with droplets of his own hot, pale green blood that steamed into the icy air as he quickly brushed aside the thick foliage of this backwater planet, his black, fleshy dreadlocks smacking rhythmically against his back with every paced step he took on the cold, uneven ground. The illustrations on his smooth, mottled reptilian skin were symbols of this one's might and prowess; any prey that was worthy to be part of his flesh canvas was depicted in their most glorious moment for everyone to see and be aware of his skills. Many of his comrades kept their preys' skulls in their trophy walls, but he took one step further and tattooed the fallen creature on his body as a constant reminder to himself, and everyone else, of the prey he had brought down. Since he couldn't carry around all of his trophies with him, he depicted them on his body. He alone created these illustrations and was quickly gaining a reputation for creating striking images that truly captured a creature's very soul. Even some Leaders had requested his special skill on their own flesh, much to the Elder's disapproval of the act since one so young did not usually indulge in the Arts, preferring for the Hunters to focus on physical competence rather than intellectual or spiritual proficiency; and the application of ink unto another's body was considered a very physical and very intimate deed usually reserved for Elders with this skill. Though by this generation, customs and age-old views did little to discourage those who applied the ink and those who searched for the ink artist.

Guan-da' – _Night Knife_ – Not his real name, but it was used to describe his favorite dark blade that he could dip into the dyes for his tattoos. In the end, the name stuck and no one would call him by any other term. Once, in the times of his Unblooded youth, this same name held a different meaning, a derogatory connotation, one he was glad to have gotten rid of and would rather not remember.

His left arm depicted a large Hard Meat drone, an Alpha, no less, that winded its serpentine body around the length of his limb with both of its jaws opened, talons clawing the air. That one specimen in particular had put up a good fight, and even with nearly all its limbs severed it still continued to retaliate. Guan-da' was more than honored to collect its skull and place the drone's image on his body. By doing so, he believed he would gain the creature's fighting spirit and combine it with his own, increasing his strength, courage, and wisdom. Other areas on his body portrayed various additional creatures that had proven themselves worthy of his flesh; from large, carnivorous animals, to smaller but more intelligent prey. Most of them were simple symbols with little detail, but drowning in color, and represent the creature's valor and might. _Zo'rill _as this spiritual performance was called. Tattooing one's prey for this reason was becoming more popular amongst the younger generation, while Elders of times past could do nothing but shake their heads at the commercialism of what was once a small but important ritual reserved for the honorable. Guan-da' cared little for the thoughts of the Elders, though he made sure to never utter these thoughts aloud nor boast of his ink skill and whom he had applied ink to. He was on this planet simply so he could add the one prey he wanted to be part of his flesh and soul.

The _Pyode Amedha_. The Soft Meat.

But apparently what Guan-da' thought would be an easy Hunt proved to be more difficult than he expected. He knew human hunters – _ooman_ in slang and for those with too heavy an accent to pronounce it properly; Guan-da' belonged to the latter – frequented this area and hoped to encounter one of them and seize the trophy without much trouble, but as his rotten luck would have it the only hunters nearby was one adult male and his offspring. His personal Hunting Code dictated that he shouldn't attack until the adult creature assaulted him first. It was only fair his more level-headed Leaders and mentors had said into boredom, the honorable course of action. Guan-da' had been tracking the pair for a while; keeping a healthy distance so he wouldn't have to unnecessarily use his cloaking device…

Then he was shot. At first he didn't pay much attention the loud bang of the weapon until the projectile went clean into his abdomen and brought him down. When he heard the dirty _oomans_ approaching, he quickly retreated to some strong branches located above where he fell, cursing under his mask all the way up: _Soji- ed' atupp! Sato-idi!_ and other such nasty remarks in his native tongue. Blood dripped heavily from his wound, and a few of those droplets fell upon the adult _sojih _as it was examining the area where a small amount of his pale blood had pooled at the base of the tree he had perched on.

The human looked up, its eyes wide in surprise.

Guan-da' growled, insults still fresh in his mind, as he extended his wrist blades.

It _had_ shot him first…

The skull was not worthy; the adult barely fought back. In fact, it didn't fight at all. The adult simply stood there, motionless, almost paralyzed in fear, as Guan-da' brought his knifes across its throat. The _ooman's_ hot, crimson blood sprayed across its offspring's face, and the young one in turn screamed and ran away. He didn't bother to chase it down and only hoped that it would grow to be a much better hunter than its sire; this one had been a disappointment to say the least. There were a pair of long projectile burners nearby that belonged to the pair, but neither of them had the brains to pick one up against him. Foolish, but it may have been for the better seeing how he was injured.

Wounded and without a trophy, his luck was turning sour fast. Guan-da' knew that some other Hunter comrades went to the military complexes and boasted of how incredibly aggressive some of those specially trained humans could get under attack, but Guan-da' believed that he didn't need many trophies for his first Soft Meat Hunt and that a lone adult skull would prove to be enough. Quality versus quantity, as in almost every aspect of a Hunter's life; best have one good victory than a score of small wins. Now, as he made his way to a more sheltered area of the frigid forest, he started to have second thoughts about his decisions. Maybe he _should_ have gone Hunting on military humans, at least they were a bit more predictable…Maybe when it was warmer.

His small ship was farther away than he had expected and knew he needed to find a secure shelter before nightfall or risk that the planet's native beasts decide to figure out whether or not yautja meat could be added to their menus. He had to find refuge and heal his wounds as soon as possible. There had been an abandoned wooden dwelling not too far west that would provide a nice haven for the time being. The wary-footed Hunter made direction towards the odd complex.

It was not hard to get into the old wooden compound; a quick tinkering with one of his elongated nails and the ridiculously weak lock gave way. The interior stank of trapped dust and aged humidity, and by the derelict look of the place there hadn't been a sentient being living in here for what he guessed could be years; their sour scent was long gone from the air. Many of what had to be furnitures or at least large decorative pieces were covered in an odd white cloth as either ceremonial or to protect them, and standing erect almost in a true random pattern were different types of flat, square objects that stood upon wooden or metal holders as if for display, but many of them were, too, covered with the cloth. These were merely minor, back-seat thoughts as the Hunter cautiously made his way inside the complex. Never mind the oddities, _oomans_ were not exactly known for their common sense – or lack thereof – when it came to their dwelling preferences; the important thing was that this place was empty and the most secure area he could find in such short notice. Guan-da' placed his hunting equipment on a nearby table and quickly pulled his small medical kit from his side bag, setting the metal utensils and healing elixirs near him to work on his wounds. The Hunter's metal mask was removed from his bony, tusked face with a wet hissing sound; he would need a clear view of what he was doing and the mask's many different visions, though invaluable for stalking, had little use for this kind of task. He was neither a healer nor medic, but he knew enough tricks on the subject to survive all the way to this age.

The pain was not much – the dislocated knee incident of his puphood serving him as a reminder, and a relative point, that any grief could be much more severe –, but he had to be dexterous with the needle-thin grabbing tool to pull the bullet out, and more than once muffle a growl of anguish. The damage was not as grave as he initially believed; there was more blood than physical harm, but knew it would not be long before he started to feel the sting of the raw wound and the aching tenderness of the sore muscles. All for the better; it mean that he will live. Once his injury was cleaned and bandaged, Guan-da' took a good look at the bloody projectile, wondering how such a small metal object could bring so much pain, before placing it in one his gear pockets, a little trinket to keep as an odd souvenir of sorts and a reminder of how unpredictable the Soft Meat could be.

With most of his strength returned, Guan-da' began examining the other areas of the dwelling, trying to find any useful item or a curiosity to take with him. Humans were infamous to be having the oddest weapons and items that they never used, but could serve useful for a resourceful yautja. Suddenly, as Guan-da' passed an oddly structured door, a winged beast attacked him; the creature's talons ready to rip flesh and limb, its large, black wings thrown behind in defiance. Guan-da' bolted back, his blades extended in defense, adding a loud guttural roar to intimidate the beast foolish enough to challenge him in closed quarters. Whatever creature that dared to assault his person would pay dearly with its life! The creature stood in mid-air, but remained motionless. Mouth open wide, but silent. Guan-da' blinked twice, perplexed. His body and breaths relaxed when he realized that his opponent was not an actual animal, merely an illustration of a bird-like creature. The Hunter retreated his knives, feeling heated blood rise to his face; a sign of embarrassment at his own gullibility. The illustration had fooled him though, perfectly caught him off guard. So _this_ was human _art._ Guan-da' cocked his head to the side, and became amazed at the level of detail on the creature depicted in the square structure it stood on. It was as if he could reach out and touch the soft feathers themselves.

Yautja art, though not generally studied by of his own people, focused more on symbolism and movement rather than detail. For creatures that could live a couple of centuries, iconic detail in trivial matters such as art, architecture, and music were seen as – ironically enough – a waste of time. The only kind of art that was tolerated, even revered at points, were the adornments of armor, weapons, dreadlocks, and tusks with intricate ornaments of wood, jewels, metal, and bone. Fine art – illustrating and creating embellishments for the mere sake of it – was looked down upon, even prohibited in the more conservative districts. For Guan-da', respecting the modest, cultural style of his species, to be suddenly presented an illustration that must have required a great deal of time, skill, and patience was seen as both an imprudent expense by the artistic creator, and at the same time a piece to envy. Though he had never seen this specific avian with his own eyes, the bird's poise and posture seemed realistically flawless – it _had_ to be the way this animal moved in the wild – and found himself becoming entranced with the image before him.

He was told by his peers that humans were allowed to recreate in the Arts, music even, if they so wished, unlike the yautja kin, – there were little if any restrictions to what a human could do, thus the reason for such an unfocused lifestyle, they said – but Guan-da' now believed that if one could create such a convincing image, create the illusion of life on a dead cloth, then it must be a highly respected person amongst its people. The again, this place was located in an area that may hint at a possibility that the artist did not wish for many eyes to fall on its creations and work. It was a thought that old Night-Knife could relate to. If the narrow-minded masses had no proof of one's petty _hobby,_ then they had little motive to trouble you. _Ison'yahh- anel, son'yahh-oguef. _No wood, no fire. His eyes wandered the painting and grew disappointed when he saw that the animal's fishy prey was left white and naked, unfinished. A shame; he would have prized the piece more should the entire painting be done. Not that it would have been too hard for Guan-da' to recreate an ichthyoid's scaly body in this style. It would have been a challenge, yes, but not impossible. If only he could…

Guan-da' shook his head at the thought, looking away with his gaze turned towards his side and his arms outstretched in front of him, palms facing outwards, as if trying to make a physical barrier between himself and the painting. No. It would be downright ridiculous to even touch this alien illustration. This piece was not his to begin with, therefore had no right to claim it as so to give himself permission to amend it. Worst of all, the single thought that made him take a step back from the painting, it belonged to a dirty _ooman_. No yautja, Hunter or philosopher, would dare to take anything so problematic onboard their ship unless they wanted to create trouble for the examiners and themselves when it came to inspect the returning ship's trophies and other foreign objects within it. That is, unless they had a _really_ convincing reason for such. Yautja art was barely tolerated. _Human _art? The mere thought was ridiculous. There would have not been any way to convince the examiners to allow such a taboo item to be kept freely.

There had been a mild but amusing incident a while back when a Leader tried to smuggle into their home planet a wild animal hidden in one of his adjutant's sleeping chambers in hopes of giving it to his favored female, the only Priestess that had consented to bore his child, as a gift. No amount of pleading could convince the examiners to approve the beast, so the Leader was thrown in the holding cell for smuggling…alongside the beast itself. And the female?

"_He usually offered his trophies dead_."

Guan-da' thoughts returned to the here and now, not wanting to think of what could happen should be bring this piece with him. Dealing with examiners had never been something he enjoyed; nor that anyone enjoyed, for that matter. Yet, who was forcing him to carry off the painting? The Elders grating this Hunt gave him no time limit for his return, most likely not caring _if _he returned at all, and the circumstances hinted that no human will interfere in this place. The dwelling was abandoned, after all, and guessed that the rest of the clothed structures were more rare paintings that were doomed to remain forgotten, maybe even unfinished, forever. He grew impatient at the thought. Leaving such a piece incomplete when it deserved to be fulfilled, it seemed positively criminal; if not at least a crazed chance to do what he wanted to do behind the Elders' back. A mild form of rebellion. Healthy for any young Hunter, of course. One had to yank the chain without breaking it every now and then.

Guan-da's eyes peered to the painting, then to a small wooden shelf nearby that held a collection of different colored dyes in glass containers with long, thin brushes set down next to them. It was not hard to identify the substance in the glass containers as the dyes used for this illustration. He looked at the painting, then towards the dyes, then back at the painting again. Guan-da' brought his longer lower tusks together in thought. Finding the painting may have not been mere coincidence; maybe he was _supposed_ to have come across this and finish it. Though he was even less of a philosopher than a healer, the deities' will was not something any yautja would take likely, no matter how trivial the task. The more reasonable view would be that if not for the painting's sake, then at least for his own peace of mind. After all, a predator was nothing without its prey.

The paints he found in that dusty shelf were odd and unnatural. The top of the glass containers had to be removed with a forceful twist, making an audible _pop_, and stank very much like the cleaning agents used to wash off dried meat and tissue off trophy skulls. Unlike the ink used for tattooing, a watery fluid with a mild acidic base added in it to dissolve the chalk-like dye, these paints were thick and heavy. There was a thin film of liquid on top, signifying that these dyes were water soluble. Curious, Guan-da' dipped the tip of his finger into the paint, testing the texture, then brought the paint to the top of his lip, where the smelling pits were located right underneath each upper tusk within the mouth, but as soon as the strong chemicals in the dye harassed the sensitive flesh, he removed it, curling his upper lip in a disgusted snarl. The smell was definitely going to be a feature to get used to.

His thoughts wandered to the painting and the dyes in his hands; dyes that he was beginning to understand how they behaved by the way they mixed and smeared as he rubbed them between his fingers. If these dyes were anything similar to _nod'_ – a special paint used to design on skin and dreadlocks as temporary tattoos in times of celebration or rituals – then half of his work was already done. With his sharp frontal teeth on his upper jaw, Guan-da' nipped the end of his nails on his left hand until it created a small slit that would hold the paint. Guan-da' dipped the nails into different colored paints, choosing the ones that would harmonize with the painting's original method, and, after a few hesitant moments in which he was sure his beating heart was going to leap out of his mouth, began to work on the bird's hunting portrait; careful to make his style as equal to the original's as possible. It was important that the fish was part of the painting; truly worthy of the talons it was about to be impaled in.

His fingers danced upon the canvas with a confidence and expertise yet to be matched amongst his kind. Not that it was much of a statement to be proud of, seeing as how there were not many of his kind he could compare to that dwelled in this sort of pastime. Even though his culture did not allow the acknowledgement of honor in matters that were considered insignificant and trivial, it did little to stop Guan-da' from pursuing his interest on the subject. There were no actual laws against artists, singers, entertainers, musicians, dancers, and all other kind of individuals that decided to step away from the Hunters' Path to pursue a more creative lifestyle, but they ran the risk of becoming outcasts of their own culture. That's why most that decided to pursue their imagination instead of pursuing prey had at least one foot on the Hunter's Path itself. As long as one had trophies on their wall, the rest cared little about what these would-be Hunters decided to do in their spare time.

The painting's original style was even harder to get accustomed to than the paints' stench. There was no black outline, as it was customary for tattoos; merely a light color base then darkening as each new coat of paint was applied. It was a similar technique when actually coloring tattoos whenever the opportunity presented itself; it was unfortunate that color tattoos weren't as popular as bold lines or else he would have had some more practice in the subject. Light pastel colors first, then darker hues, and finally the detailing. Soon enough, he managed to grasp the technique. Light pastel colors first, then darker hues, and finally the detailing. A sense of relief forced a content sigh out of his lips; it had been a long time since he had ever illustrated with such recklessness. Though that statement would have been incorrect since it was not true recklessness, but it was still a feeling of suppressed satisfaction. No one but Elders were allowed to dwell in the canvas painting field of the Arts, and yet here he was, Guan-da', poor student Night-Knife, with a painting cloth in front of him finishing an illustration that was not even his to begin with. An _ooman _painting. And _he,_ he alone, was doing this without the Elder's knowledge, much less their consent. It was wonderful, exhilarating; a miniscule sense of mischief that felt as strong as an _otag _beast clawing his insides. It was as if he was truly centered – _zazin_ – and all of his concentration was focused on the large ichthyoid and capturing the animal's very soul on this piece of cloth; as all of the ink artists aspired to do. The artists' reputation and honor depended on not only a satisfied customer, but that _zo'rill _was properly completed for the beast's soul to correctly bond with the Hunter's.

In the right here, in the right now, it was merely him and the painting. There were no worries of an upcoming Hunt and its preparations, nor unnecessary pride to cloud his thoughts. _Maybe_, Guan-da' thought, _I will be able to take this piece on my ship when it is finished and dry_. His thoughts, as well as his heart, halted for a second at that notion. This was a human art craft. After docking on the Mother Ship that brought him here, the _Haba,_ Guan-da' could visualize his comrades with knifes unsheathed and claws bared, rasping outside his chamber door, waiting, waiting, waiting for the miserable ink artist to let his guard down, to turn his back on his collected item for one moment, the moment they needed to rip the painting to shreds. Or worse, vandalize it and leave it where it stood as a physical form of mocking. _See, Guan-da'? _he could hear them say in contemptuous sing-song voices, _we are artists too, just like you._

The miserable ink artist sighed. At least when it was done he would have peace of mind and a clear conscious, even if he had to leave it behind…

The night thinned away.

Guan-da' had returned. He returned because he was a spineless being who was incapable of controlling his creative urges, he told himself. The night before had been incredibly productive, to say the least, claimed with a personal victory by completing the human painting. It was as close to the original style as his experience allowed him to recreate, but it was the most beautiful thing he had created, or finished. He had left the painting in an area of the complex where the planet's sun would be able to dry the paint quicker, and then returned to his ship, as satisfied as a hungry newborn pup being offered his first teat. Yet as he warmed the engines, ready to lift into the atmosphere and find another place with more suitable prey, he began to make excuses to himself to delay the departure. If it wasn't that he thought the engines were making odd noises and had to be checked, then his armor needed more polishing, or he had to rearrange the skulls on his wall for the umpteenth time.

As soon as the sun peered over the mountains, Guan-da' set off back to the wooden human dwelling, where the painting – _his_ painting – was located. He felt compelled to check on it, to admire his handiwork one more time. The fact that he had finished this piece of artwork, a true artist's effort, gave him a sense of satisfaction that no Hunt could equal and very rarely could experience.

As Guan-da' stared into the illustration, admiring its fine qualities with a satisfied click of his tusks, he felt his fingers itching to touch the paint again; a light tingly feeling. He tried to compose himself, to not fall so easily to his wants. He was a serene Hunter, Guan-da' told himself, unruffled by fear or pleasure. Before his mind was aware what his body was doing, the great yautja Hunter Guan-da' had grabbed another odd square object with that same white fabric stretched over the perimeter of the wooden edges, one completely naked of color, and placed the paints next to him again.

The next excruciatingly long moments were spent staring empty-eyed at the most intimidating piece of cloth he had ever lay eyes on.

Guan-da' left a frustrated sigh escape from his mouth, shaking his head slowly. Never did he have much trouble illustrating before; either it was a tattoo that he could do in his sleep, or someone else already had something in mind. The endless white before him was daunting, more terrible than any sharp-toothed maw of the largest beast he had ever encountered. The possibilities, all of them, were endless. What could he illustrate? Everything. What to choose? All. Guan-da' dipped his split-nailed fingers in the retching paint and began to create, but what, in particular, was another matter. As in many aspects of his life, he will leave that up to luck. Whatever was to appear on the canvas let it be so by the will of the gods.

The movements were quick and fluid, no hesitation was present. His eyes became deep and focused, eyelids narrowing over his golden orbs in an alert scowl.

Guan-da' became so immersed into his painting that more than once he had to remember to breathe. This feeling was unequaled to anything; limited and liberating at the same time. If only he could be allowed to do this more often…

Warriors danced at the success of a bountiful Hunt, or were celebrating the annual _etreum It'ed _sacrifice for _Paya_, or readying for an upcoming Hunt with the _Kiss of Midnight_ ritual made popular recently by the broad-shouldered northern yautja…It could be anyone of those and more, or none at all. It did not matter. All those emotions and that raw passion were placed in the canvas; the very essences of the Hunters were captured in a piece of _human_ cloth. Human canvas containing yautja artwork. An odd combination, but it was one of the few pieces of work Guan-da' could stand back, admire it, and say he was proud. It was customary that a yautja would have to wait until age made his or her bones brittle – unsuitable for any labor or caretaking, but still respected as a person – to be allowed to freely dwell in the Elders' Arts, but Guan-da' felt that it was too long a wait, life too unpredictable, with _Cetanu_ eagerly waiting behind every tree and boulder, to suppress his talents until grew old. He wanted to paint _now_.

Leaving his work next to the area where the falconoid's hunting portrait stood so this one could dry in the sun as well, Guan-da' set off and returned to his ship for the night. Tomorrow he had to bring down a few pieces of this planet's game animals in order to sustain himself for a few days longer before returning to his artwork again. Just because he could not take it with him did not mean it would be left isolated. The Hunter was certain he would not return until late nightfall, or even early morning, but didn't worry about it much; it wasn't as if any creature, animal or sentient, was going to find it anytime soon.


	2. Rough Sketches

CHAPTER 2 – Rough Sketches

Terri wasn't at all ready to sleep but somehow wished that she could close her eyes and only wake up in the morning where all will be clearer, both her mind and her sight. The odd little _gift_ next to the now completed bird portrait made her wide-awake and wary. Where _did_ it come from? It was definitely not her style, too messy and chaotic, she was a realist, abstract and modern art never appealed her and she wasn't exactly known to jump from style to style at the drop of dime; her current style of precise realism mixed with fantasy and science fiction themes was gaining the attention and money she had been dreaming of since she was as a child doodling stick men on the side of her notebook.

She gently ran the tip of her fingers across the canvas of the odd painting. The color was applied thickly but oddly precise. Again, the work of an expert in the arts. This method seemed similar to a colleague's of hers, he loved to apply thick globs of paint and smear them out on the canvas. The ones he didn't want he gave them to her as a present and she usually stored them in the attic of her studio where no one could see them; in a way she was ashamed to be associated with such a simplistic style. All of her friends knew she could be found here during the winter months so maybe he made a little trip to her cabin and, finding it empty, he just placed it here. That didn't explain how he got in or why he finished her other painting.

"Damn you Ash, I swear if you made him a copy of the spare key I gave you…"

The last thing she needed was people coming in and out of her cabin at their leisure; she was afraid others were going to use it as their personal getaway home when she wasn't around. She only gave the spare key to Ashley in case of an emergency or anything similar but if she was starting to hand copies of the key around then Terri might have to change the lock and key set.

Terri sighed and picked up the pillows again to the laundry room, throwing them on top of the counter where all the detergents and similar products were, then came back to the living room and placed a protective cloth on the bird painting. She looked at the other one. It was hideous in her eyes. There was a fresh set of paints she had yet to open, maybe she could try them out on this reject of a painting and see how they act. It was a near ritual for her to paint or draw before she went to sleep, this should calm her down enough for a good night's rest.

"It's not as if it's worth much anyways," she said to herself as she set down a few brushes and opened the first set of paints with a satisfying pop.

(-)

It was already late night and all Guan-da' could find were these odd looking quadruped herbivorous animals that had weird growths of bone coming out of their heads. They were not aggressive in the least and ran with great speed on their long scrawny legs so catching one on foot was hard enough but the thick foliage slowed him down even more. He only managed to bring down two of the larger ones with his spear. Males. It seems the ones with young did not have those bony growths and deemed them to be female so they were left alone to continue the populace.

With his provisions stocked safely in his ship, and already consumed a nice breast piece from one of them, Guan-da' immediately set off to the wooden structure where his illustration was safely hidden from ooman eyes. Even though the entire day of Hunting tired him out a bit his pace now grew considerably more lively, his excitement evident in the light clicking of his tusks under the mask and the low rumbling from deep in his throat. His thoughts turned to what he could create tonight, what other piece of innovative brilliance he could come up with. Ideas churned in his mind at the possibility with such speed that it bewildered him. This is why Hunters were forbidden to recreate in the arts, it was a distraction and nothing honorable could be gained by it but selfish satisfaction.

Guan-da' came within the area of where the house was. He stopped. There was something amiss. A slight disturbance he could not pinpoint but his senses indicated it was there. His steps grew more hesitant as he neared the wooden residence, careful with his breath and pace to make sure he was as stealthy as possible; he could just as easily cloak but the cover of darkness provided enough protection from the terrestrial creatures' eyes. His own eyes were considered to be inferior in comparison to his kind. Unlike the other Yautja, who donned the ability to see in a sort of infrared vision, Guan-da' could only see in color and what was presented to him; no infrared nor other type of specialized ability like his comrades. It was helpful when he created his designs but had no advantage in the Hunt so he was usually placed in the middle to last position where it was safer and a harder chance of scoring a good kill. It was a small miracle that he survived this long with such faulty sight.

The Hunter came within sight of the wooden house and growled at the sight. The lights within it were on and the bright illumination escaped through the dusty glass panels surrounding the upper and lower sections of the structure.

No doubt about it, there _were_ oomans in there! Maybe it wasn't as abandoned as he previously believed...

_C'jit_! This would definitely make things harder for him and had half a mind to leave and return to his ship. He wasn't in the mood to Hunt oomans anymore now that his chance to paint had been shattered by the oomans' presence and –

Wait. His painting. It was in there! The oomans! What would they do with it? Destroy it? Or would they take it away? The thought of them even touching his work with their greasy hands made him growl in anger. If there were oomans in there he would have to avoid them, recuperate his painting, and take it back to his ship before they could retaliate. Then what? He couldn't take it back to the Mother Ship, the Elders wouldn't allow it and then chastise him for becoming distracted with such frivolous efforts.

That was not important right now. He just wanted his painting back; then he could worry about what to do with it once it was in his possession again.

Guan-da' closed the distance between himself and the house with his best stealth skills, zigzagging his direction to make sure nothing could trail him and that he alternated between up-wind and down-wind to confuse whatever opponents could be lurking in the shadows. Yet no opposition met him as he finally placed his back on the cool surface of the wooden structure. He neared to one of the closer windows and peered through it to see how many oomans could be lurking inside and hoped to catch a glimpse of his work to see if it was intact.

There only seemed to be one lone ooman through the obstructions of the furniture in his way and it was sitting on a stool of sorts, bending over to another one of those illustration structures, and doing soft arm movements with a long wooden object in its hand. Guan-da' cloaked, his form melding with the dark background behind him, then stood in front of the window to get a better view.

An angry gasp escaped his throat.

His painting! The ooman had the nerve to meddle with his creation! _And with another set of dyes no less! It was ruining it!_ All the work he put into the illustration… _Stop that! Not another stroke with those infernal paints! _

His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white and he extended his wristblades with the tiniest flick of his hand. Guan-da' was going to use this ooman's blood to redo the areas where it was spoiled by its despicable act…

(-)

"Oh god, what kind of demented mind created this piece of crap?" muttered Terri as she added some red to the darker areas of the background to give them some sort of color to the otherwise bland setting. "I'm not sure even I can fix this one. It's beyond hope… That's it, screw this shit. I'm done, no more messing with it, I can't fix it; it's just as hideous as before."

Since the painting was given to her and she worked at least a good hour on it she claimed it as hers by signing her name on the lower right hand corner of the canvas.

_Theresa Rossner_

She let out a tired sigh and glanced at her watch. It was 1:07 am, _way_ past her bedtime. Terri became restless in this middle ground of awake and tire. She dug her face in her hands and let out a loud, tired moan then shook her head violently. Her body was screaming at her to go to sleep but her mind was wide-awake and eager to do something. She needed pretty badly to talk to somebody but it was past midnight, too late, probably, to even call Ash.

She kicked off hers shoes and began to undress for the night ("Shut up brain…"). There was a two-piece wool night outfit she could wear and a thick blanket to use with the sofa though she would probably have to smack most of the dust off the sofa first before laying on it. She wondered why didn't she just cover it with a sheet before she left then answered her own question with a: because then she wouldn't enough cloth to cover her paintings.

Her sweatshirt was the first article of clothing to come off and placed it on the armrest of the sofa followed by her pants, her second shirt, and bra. The socks she would keep on in this chilly night or else she would lose all feelings on her toes in the morning.

With a flick of what she called "The Master Switch", which turned off all the lights in the entire house simultaneously, she allowed the sofa's beckoning to guide her to its soft cushions of rest.

There was quite some time of tossing and turning on the sofa, trying desperately to find a comfortable position in the oddly shaped piece of furniture so she could just go to sleep and not think about anything for what she hoped would be at least five hours. Finally, when she though she would stay the entire night awake, sleep crept up on her and allowed her to rest for the night. She could sleep in all she wanted tomorrow then find a place to trash that horrible excuse of a painting, heck even sleep all fucking day if she wanted to…

(-)

_Wait, what is it doing_? Guan-da' observed with slight curiosity as the ooman marked his work with her symbol then to his utmost horror began to undress. He made disgusted sounds under his mask. The oomans were repulsive to look at, with their oddly pale and bland faces alone, but one without its garments was downright sickening!

Then the ooman turned around with only its lower undergarment on and Guan-da' _had_ to look away in disgust and slight embarrassment. It was not considered decent to look at any naked civilized creature, _especially_ a nude ooman, no matter if they flaunted their revolting bodies so unreservedly.

His eyes inadvertently glanced at the ooman then quickly darted away again.

It was _definitely _female. The pair of milk glands in her bare chest undoubtedly confirmed it.

Wait…Since when did _it_ became a _she_? That would mean he was acknowledging the creature as civilized and therefore deserving of a gender term. On top of that, being female, he wasn't allowed to kill her. He retracted his knives.

Damn.

Guan-da' waited until the ooman's breathing became deep and constant meaning she was asleep and therefore a lesser chance that she would hear him as he meddled with the lock and entered the house once again.

The door creaked a bit as it opened and he entered the threshold with the utmost silence, careful not to place his massive weight on the weaker wooden tiles that he knew created a loud squeaking sound, and made his way toward the sleeping ooman. His great height towered over the tiny creature before him. If only she could somehow understand how _pauking_ lucky she was, of how close she was to show her intestines the ends of his blades…

He was slightly surprised at how small female oomans truly were. Male oomans were already considered small prey compared to male Yautja but the females were even smaller; a female Yautja could easily dwarf a female ooman, the ooman probably wouldn't even reach below their females' breasts. It was an odd pattern, one that many animals in this planet followed; the females smaller than the males. The concept made little sense. If it were the females' job to rear and protect their young what good would be if they were so small? He wondered how oomans _ever_ became the top species of their planet.

His attention turned to his painting. It was right where he left it, only that it was angled differently where the ooman was working on it. As quickly and as silently as he could he made his way towards his work and switched his vision mode to one that allowed seeing in the dark. It was not enough to see clearly, his work looked like blurry patterns in this special vision, but he could make out some configurations from it.

The dyes the ooman used were on a small stand next to the painting. A strong smell came from them. They were different than the ones he used, totally ruined the continuity. Keeping his eyes on the paints he shot his arm at the ooman's direction, furiously extending his wristblades again with a low growl. Oh Paya help him if _only_ that _pauker_ wasn't female…

No matter. He could fix it. Not much damage done to it, the ooman only applied a few coats of different colors. She didn't disturb the main subjects, just the background. That though relieved him a bit, his painting could be saved, but damned the ooman to hell and back for her intrusion.

Guan-da' carefully pried open one of the bottles. Its lid popped loudly. He held his breath, head turning in the direction of the ooman and muscles tensed, praying that the sound didn't wake her. To his relief she only shifted lightly under the blanket and then remained still.

The Hunter let out a breath of relief. He wasn't sure what he would have done if she had seen him; the Code protected her but he also couldn't allow her to warn other oomans. Could he kill her and then claim self-defense? Who else was there to be witness?

Fingers with paint once again, the most exhilarating feeling in the world for him, Guan-da' set out to correct the setback. The fresh paint was still moist to the touch so he had to be careful not to disturb it or it could smear to other areas then truly ruin the entire painting. The ooman had applied color to parts that were never meant to have color. She had a sense of realism – he gave her _that_ much credit – but was mindless when it came to symbolism. Then again, how could he blame her for failing to understand the significance of his representation?

He could only hope that the dark colors were correctly applied to the areas they were meant to be, then added the final touch. With a long nail dipped in black he covered up the ooman's personal marking. It was never hers to begin with and had no right to claim so with her mark.

This small glimpse into the Yautja's culture belonged as much to him as the trophies that hung on his wall. It was _his _and only _his_…

(-)

"Okay, what the fuck…?"

Terri had woken up that morning with a terrible backache (never _again_ sleep in that position on a sofa) and was preparing a cup of coffee to warm her system further; it had been one heck of a chill that night. Some loud bang woke her up in the middle of the night; she figured it was a hunter still out for game or the branch that gave under a raccoon's weight. She had managed to go back to sleep again but in the morning her hair was messy and appeared more like road kill than anything else. When she got in a few sips of the hot liquid she returned to the sofa but as she entered the living room once again her eyes fell on the odd painting she was working on last night only to find that it had returned to its original design.

It was as if she had never touched it but Terri clearly remembered bended over that hideous thing, trying to fix. There were still traces of red paint on her hands where the ends of her paintbrushes smeared.

Yet here it was, mocking her with its hideous patterns, looking fresh from the easel like she didn't even spent the last hour of the night working on it.

She wasn't sure how long she stared at it, her mind reeling from the "Twilight Zone" experience, trying to figure out just what could have happened in one night. Upon closer inspection she noticed that even her signature was gone. Her fingers touched the rough canvas. The paint was dry as was expected from letting it sit out all night. Nothing unusual there. Then why did her paint disappear?

Picking up one of her paints she opened the lid and inspected it. Normal acrylics. She set the paint down and looked at the painting again. No acrylics there.

"Huh…" Could it be that her colleague used a special set of dyes that made all other types of pigment evaporate? She had heard of those kinds before; hell to find them and very expensive though, but if he wanted them he sure could have gotten them…

Terri smirked at the challenge and from one of her bags she took out a set of oil pastels. If the special paint could evaporate acrylics then there was no freaking way it could make pastels disappear, it wasn't even water based.

The pasty colored chalks became messy and soft in her warm hands but it did more damage to the odd painting. She applied the same colors as before, where the red tint should have been she added a streak of red pastel; same with the areas of dark blue and orange, where the original color used to be she used its pastel equivalent.

The last stroke with green was greatly exaggerated. She gave a swift flick of her arm with a satisfied chuckle.

"Ha! See if you can take _that _off bitch. Thought you could outsmart _me_?"

She drummed her two fingers on the middle of the canvas, creating a little tune, then twirled in victory, striking a triumphant pose, before putting away her pastels in a corner of a nearby dusty shelf.

In the lower bathroom, the one without a shower but with beautiful blue tiles, Terri washed off the messy paste from her hands. Pastels had never been one of her favorite mediums, too messy – unlike some candies it actually melted in your hand, not in your mouth (though why anyone would want to stick pastel in their mouth was beyond her). When Terri was one with the towel only traces of the colorful pastes remained in her hands. She threw the towel to wash.

After a quick lunch fix of a bagel and a beer it was time to unpack. Terri hated unpacking. All the work she put _into_ packing, reversed.

The first few boxes were easy; most of them contained art materials that could be unceremoniously dumped behind the sofa until later. All different types of paints and colorants were neatly placed on the many rows of empty shelves next to the countless books that were her small reference library. They were there collecting dust and age in case she needed a specific picture that the Internet could not provide fast enough or was hard to find; but many of them were scrapbooks of photographs she took herself when she saw something interesting or could be used for an upcoming painting. An artist was both organized and extremely chaotic at the same time; their mess was in order to their eyes, they knew where every pencil, every paper was with uncanny certainty. They were a breed apart; able to see opportunities when others wouldn't give a second glance. They were neutral, not wanting to take sides, just sit back and capture what is happening.

Yet the only thing Terri wanted to capture right now was not an idea but one of her expensive colored pencils that went AWOL under the sofa.

Off came the cloths covering the other paintings, a light layer of silver dust blanketing the air and glistening brightly wherever a ray of sun hit it, revealing past illustrations of portraits and unfinished dreams, of dark creatures and monsters to religious icons – both real and imaginary – and landscape scenes. Many of them no longer held interest. She would either have to dispose of about half of them, cover them with yeso and paint over it, or finish them and add a price tag.

The second floor only had three rooms: two bedrooms with a twin size bed in each – the room to the left being Terri's "master bedroom" – and a bathroom complete with a shower but had a dull gray tone that she never really was fond of; maybe she'd bite the bullet and recolor the bathroom this time. Her bed was immediately prepared with a fresh set of sheets that she brought in from her studio home. They were really old and depicted some odd patterns that seemed Native American but were obviously not, but they were her favorite ones to use in the cabin. It seemed like they belonged in that type of environment. She chuckled happily at the thought that tonight she would be able to sleep on her bed and not on that rackety sofa.

It was already late evening when the final box was stored and all of her materials and equipment was put away.

Terri let her tired body fall to the sofa and let out an anguished sigh. She hated – absolutely loathed – unpacking. It was nothing but wasted time yet she just shoved that thought out of her mind and stubbornly completed the detested chore in that one day. As far as dinner went she just nibbled a few things here and there as she restocked the tiny refrigerator.

Reaching over the side of the sofa she picked up her laptop on her crossed legs as she set her soda on a small counter adjacent to make sure none of the liquid would spill on the portable computer. It was done loading that large file the publishing house sent her about the next assignments for the convention. Bunch of reference pictures and details on specific designs and whatnot. Apparently the publishers had signed up with a film studio to make a science-fiction movie and were in need of a perfect monster. If it was successful then they would turn it into a book series. All credit, and money, to her of course; there was going to be a few other artists involved with this project and she had to check in with them every few days to share and discuss ideas but her work was going to be the main attraction. The Alpha Artist, as they so aptly termed her. Nice numbers too. Nothing below five figures; just the way she liked it.

She brought the soda to her smiling lips.

"It's good to be in high demand…"

(-)

_May Cetanu bring upon this despicable creature a punishment worse than a hundred dishonorable deaths!_

Guan-da' could have stabbed himself with his wrist-knives for his incompetence the night before. While he was putting away the odd paints where he originally found them so the ooman wouldn't notice the disturbance in the morning – except for the missing painting – his bulky armor accidentally slammed into one of the wooden shelves with such force that it was a wonder the shelf itself didn't shatter. The ooman moaned and stirred. He held his breath, muscles tense. There was no way she couldn't have heard that gunshot of a sound! _**Quick**, think of something! Kill her?_ His wristblades extended._ No, the Code_. Wristblades retreated. She tented the blanket over her head, muttering something. _She is waking up! Kill her **now**! The **Code**! Gah! Where's the quickest escape route? _His dreadlocks fanned out, smacking into each other, as his head quickly rotated left and right frantically searching for an exit. _The window? Too small. The door! Yes! **Freedom**! _

He had panicked and quickly retreated to his ship as fast as his legs could carry him only to find out he came back empty-handed. In the alarm he had forgotten to take the one thing he returned for, he had forgotten to take back his painting. It was still back with the ooman. Guan-da' wanted desperately to go back but feared that that he ooman female might be as aggressive as his females despite their smaller size and by then be wide awake with a weapon…

Now here he was, night once more – with the ooman conveniently retreated into an upper chamber with a closed door completely separating him from her, absolutely safe that he would hear her and escape long before she would ever find out of his presence –and his work had been meddled with _again_! The insult that silent retaliation created was enough to make the Hunter fume in anger. She obviously lacked the intelligence to comprehend superior talent when she continued to shamelessly alter his creation with such recklessness. Once he could forgive out of the ooman's ignorance but twice he saw as an outright challenge to his authority.

And Guan-da' was not the kind to turn down a challenge.

The ooman wanted to play? Fine. Let the games begin.


	3. Where's that Eraser?

CHAPTER 3- Where's that Eraser?

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: So u didn't manage to find anything that suggested a break-in?

**AlphaArtist Says**: Nada. And it's the same thing every time. I paint, then the thing goes back to how it originally was.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Odd…U sure u're not sleepwalking or anything? I mean, that's the only thing I can come up with…

**AlphaArtist Says**: I used to sleepwalk when I was younger, like 14 or something, but that hasn't happened in years!

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: U have a better explanation? May I suggest a priest?

**AlphaArtist Says**: You have a point…And to think I came out here to RELAX.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Next thing u know, u'll be going around wielding a chainsaw making a mask out of people's skins…

**AlphaArtist Says**: LOL! And you'll be my first victim.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Can't wait ;)

**AlphaArtist Says**: Odd fetishes aside…How are your sketches? Managed to get anything that the publishing house might consider?

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Damn, I was hoping for some cyber-lovin'….

**AlphaArtist Says**: Shot down in real life AND in the cyber world. ZING!

**AlphaArtist Says**: Damn I'm good.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: But I sent u some things. Got my e-mail?

**AlphaArtist Says**:…You mean THOSE were your ideas?

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Ok. Ouch.

**AlphaArtist Says**: Sorry. But my first impression was that they looked like typical monsters. Godzilla, King Kong, werewolves, etc…Have you been visiting the zoo with Ash again?

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Got shot down there too, lol. She's a real bitch. I like it :) But u said that the publishers wanted a monster that terrorized people. People are scared of large animals.

**AlphaArtist Says**: No, people are scared of something chasing them. I've seen body-builders running from squirrels because it was following them.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: LMAO!

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Man I wished I could have seen that…

**AlphaArtist Says**: Give me something simple but effective. Something that's primitive…A hunter or something, a seeker.

**AlphaArtist Says**: Something that is intelligent. People are scared of intelligence.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: In that case, u must be terrorized…Run Terri! RUN!

**AlphaArtist Says**: Cute.

_WannaBManga-Ka has joined the conversation>_

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: Sorry I'm late logging-in.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: No problem man. In fact, u're just in time for a cyber-threesome!

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: …

**AlphaArtist Says**: Ignore the sexually deprived fool.

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: lol I'll try to.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: HEY:(

**AlphaArtist Says**: Whatcha got for me Sam?

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: See for yourself.

_WannaBManga-Ka is sending AlphaArtist: "MovieMons.jpg" file(s). Accept: Ctrl+Enter. Deny: Del>_

_File(s) Accepted>_

_Downloading file(s)…>_

_Complete>_

**AlphaArtist Says**: Nice. Very nice. You got the basic idea I was going for. Primitive.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: What is it?

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Is it better than mine?

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: You know it, bitch. You can't compare to my 1337 skillz!

**AlphaArtist Says**: …You DID NOT just do that…

**AlphaArtist Says**: Sam, what are you, like 31?

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: In real life I am. Once in the cyber world I am a SINGLE 25/M. It's harmless play really.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: PEDOPHILE PEDOPHILE PEDOPHILE PEDOPHILE PEDOPHILE PEDOPHILE

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: Takes one to know one.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Haven't heard that one since high school.

**AlphaArtist Says:** Children, children, let's get back on topic, shall we? Ok, Joshua, I need you to step away from oversized animals but still retain that primitive aspect of a predatory creature. Sam, yours are good but are a bit too humanized. Lessen the human look to your creatures, at least in the facial area. If you can, make them hunch over or something. I don't want the audience to connect with this monster, only the protagonist. It's a bloodthirsty predatory creature that hunts humans, got that?

**WannaBManga-Ka Says:** Gotcha Terri.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Gotcha.

**Pencil-Pusher Says:** 1 question though. How primitive do u want this thing to be? Like a Yeti or something? Neanderthal? Girl locked up in a cabin on the mountains?

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: ZING!

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: LOL! Nice.

**AlphaArtist Says**: Cute…Give me anything that you have in mind so far. From absolute prehistoric to something a little less primal. This creature has to be able to track down humans in both a jungle and a city with ease.

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: So weapons should be…? Or scratch the weapons let it's own body be the weapon?

**AlphaArtist Says**: Hmm…Haven't thought that far. I was so busy with the rough designs…You know what? Just show me a wide variety of whatever comes out of your ass. Spears, guns, knives, teeth, claws …You get the idea. A little bit of everything but don't overdo it. Remember, it's a Hunter. Hunters don't carry grenade launchers.

**Pencil-Pusher Says:** That WOULD be a cool idea…

**AlphaArtist Says**: Whatever. You want to use it? Fine. Work with it. Give me a variety of everything.

**AlphaArtist Says**: Has anyone seen CRAYOLA ? She hasn't logged on yet.

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: Nope.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Haven't heard from her since the last meeting.

**AlphaArtist Says**: Someone save this conversation and send it to her please. I don't want any of my artists bitching about how I wasn't specific enough.

**WannaBManga-Ka Says**: I got it. You're welcome.

**WannaBManga-Ka Says:** What about you? We haven't seen any of your stuff yet.

**AlphaArtist Says**: I'm busy. That's all you need to know. Besides, it's kinda hard to find the perfect predatory creature amongst the birds and squirrels.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: How about a killer deer?

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: OMFG! That was genius!

**AlphaArtist Says**: Ok. Keep it. Work with it.

**Pencil-Pusher Says**: Ok then, I have to log off. C ya later. Terri, I might not be on for the next meeting so I might send you an e-mail again.

_Pencil-Pusher may not_ _reply because he/she is offline>_

**WannaBManga-Ka Says:** Can't find inspiration in the mountains? Look out the window, there's bound to be your inspiration right there.

**AlphaArtist Says**: Yeah right. Sure, I'll look right behind me and right there is going to be EXACTLY what I'm looking for in all its perfected glory. My muse would be out of the job.

**WannaBManga-Ka Says:** You never know…

(-)

_How long is this creature going to be in front of that infernal flat machine of hers?_

Over two precious hours wasted on observing a dangerous creature and she spent her time doing…_something_ over a flat machine with a glowing screen and what appeared to be a keyboard or something of the sort. There were times when she let out a sound, that hideous garbled ooman version of laughter, but other than that she simply remained laid down on a large, ugly (and possibly dirty), piece of furnishing with that oddly flat machine on her lap. Two hours of sitting on a large boulder directly in front of the ooman's dwelling place would test anyone's patience. Especially if your cloaking device was heating up your body and making you sweat a good deal. And especially if you couldn't feel your legs from the waist down, only a light tingling sensation. On top of that there were these buzzing insects that seemed to have grown a taste for his blood and were driving him absolutely insane! No matter how many times he smacked around his dreadlocks to shoo them away they always came back. Like miniature Kiande Amedha. But he couldn't relax, oh no, one never knew if that ooman was playing bluff and would attack when he least expected it. A good Hunter was always on alert…even if that numbing sensation was threatening to crawl up towards the rest of his body.

So much for trying to gain the painting again. For all he knew, she was going to be up all night. That meant an entire night on NOT Hunting but rather babysitting a very precious piece of cloth from the ooman. If she even dared to touch his painting again with her infernal dyes he would…do…something…very, very horrible, but not so horrible as to break his Code, but still pretty bad. Maybe vandalism. To distract her of course. Pure distraction, not out of cowardice. Not that he couldn't take on an ooman…maybe not a female ooman, not that he ever tried, but he wasn't about to find out his limitations right now either.

Guan-da slapped the back of his neck.

Damn this planet's insects… 

After a while Guan-da' began to grow slightly more curious at what exactly that female ooman was doing with that machine. Her fingers kept on dancing over the board gingerly. Typing definitely. But what? Codes? Communication?

Was the ooman's technology powerful enough to rival his own? Could she be tracking down his beacons? Could she be tracking him down right now? She could be very well aware that he was right there behind her! Then he would be trapped because with that advanced technology of hers she could easily disable his ship and his weapons and his cloaking device and he would be spotted and she would sense him and attack him and he wouldn't stand a chance without his burner and his spear could only do so much but by then she would have easily best him or more oomans could have arrived and the Hunter becomes the Hunted and he would end up in HER trophy wall.

_Stop. Being. Paranoid. _

_I'm not being paranoid. I'm being cautious. _

_Stop arguing with yourself. _

_I'm not arguing with myself. I'm - …_

Damn.

Maybe being two hours sitting on a large boulder directly in front of the ooman's dwelling place was NOT the best of choices at the moment. It had been a long day and it seems as if it was going to be an even longer night. The tire was toying with his mind. He wouldn't be able to concentrate properly if he couldn't think straight. And talking with one's self was not a healthy sign either. Hunters were focused. Hunters were prepared. Fatigue and stress only added to the distraction. Distractions were unnecessary. If he got distracted then he wouldn't be able to react properly should the ooman decide to attack and if that were to happen then the female ooman could easily get the upper hand on him, he would retaliate, but she could best him and he would try to fight her off but he wouldn't be able to because she was a female, and an ooman, and female oomans were just as bad, if not worse, than his specie's females so he obviously didn't stand a chance but if were to die at the ooman's hands he would at least die with Honor and that was a good thing but then –

What was that sound?

_Ooman! _

He clutched the spear at his side, leaning forward slightly but at the same time a swift retreat never looked so tempting…

_No, small rodent with a bushy tail_.

_GHA! Stop it!_

Some c'ntlip in his storage room could drown the worries. Yes. Yes, that should work. Leave the ooman for now before his own nerves became the death of him.

Guan-da' would need _a lot_ of c'ntlip then.


	4. Pencil Smears

A/N: My goodness. I took forever with this. I'm not going to bore you with excuses, I have my reasons for taking so long, just be glad I updated. On that note I saw that both DustTraveller and Sealink have reviewed this piece of boredom-killer. My idols. Here. Reading my fic. My bowels can barely control themselves. Oh god no...Oh god the mess...

Chapter 4 – Pencil Smears

Already the large package slipped from her hands for what had to be the second time in less than ten paces. Terry had underestimated the weight of her old anatomy and other art books and thinking she could just place them in a box and carry them to the open trunk of the taxi had been a bad idea to say the least. The shelves were beginning to become too crowded from Terry's bad habit of walking into the nearby book store in her city home every other morning for coffee and not leaving without a frapuccino in one hand and a new book in the other. Those books would always find their way into the cabin. Anatomy and art tid-bits were her favorites, but fantasy and sci-fi novels were also increasing in amount in her private library. Sometimes she would read a couple of pages from one of those and then begin to sketch that scene were the dragon enslaved the warrior princess or the alien had claimed yet another human victim. It was not so much the actual setting that preoccupied Terry those rainy afternoon days, but the monsters. The creatures that the authors would only hint about until the last moment and her mind would go on overload trying to capture the creature on paper without losing the same effect. Anatomy books to get the muscles just right. Novels to look back upon and get that sense of tension of if she got it right nor not. Now all of them had to go. Well, Terry didn't now if she could live without all of her books, but a good amount had to be sent back.

If she could get them into the car, that is.

"Need 'elp?" asked the heavily accented taxi driver.

Terry shook her head. "Nah, nah…I'm fine. A bit heavy, but I can do it. It's not too bad." With one final gulp of air, Terry held her breath and used all her might to walk (albeit awkwardly) the last twenty steps and let the box slip out of her hands into the trunk with a sickening thud. The car groaned under the weight like an injured animal pleading to be taken out of its misery

The taxi driver raised an eyebrow as thick as his accent. "Wha' yous got in 'ere? A bodie?"

"Heh, almost a body. Well, part of bodies. Hands, feet, torsos, heads…You know, a bit of everything."

If anyone could accomplish a look of fear, confusion, and shock, it would have been the taxi driver at that point. Not that Terry had been lying. All those anatomy books did indeed have feet, legs, hands, and various other body parts so in actuality there were several bodies in that box. Terry didn't want to freak out the driver too badly – after all, she needed him to drive him to the post office in the nearby town – so she assured him that the bodies in question were only pictures. Speaking of pictures, Terry had just reminded herself that she still had to rearrange all those paintings left around the main floor. She had already moved half of them to the guest room and a few in her own while the rest were scattered about in neat areas depending on their a) value, b) completion, and c) if she even gave a damn about them. Terry couldn't be expected to be rushed about the monster painting, even with all that money. Hell, they paid her to create a great monster, and that's exactly what she'll do. All in due time though, all in due time.

Terry got into the back seat. She had never been too comfortable up in front, even if she were allowed. Riding next to a stranger would be too weird. This way she can at least take out her cell phone and pretend to talk to someone and avoid the awkward conversation on the way to town. Now she would somehow have to pull about an hour worth of imaginary conversation out of her ass.

The driver got into his taxi, and the car zoomed away.

(-)

If it wasn't because the weather was appearing fouler than the look of an angry sai'binx mother protecting her cubs, Guan-da' would have been at the ooman's dwelling sooner. Before he had even begun to navigate this area for prey he had been too eager and too proud to check for suitable weather patterns and now he was deeply regretting his decision. Some days the weather was clear and warm, still to cool for his preference but then again the entire planet was too cool for a yautja's prefence, and other days the temperature dived to levels that were downright aggravating. The mesh netting easily protected from the frost's bite, but his body was still very aware that it was cold outside. He knew of some Leaders who had been blessed with wealth from birth and could afford an entire territory on the ooman planet for Blooding ceremonies alone. The students were as well-off as the teacher, and could pay for the better equipment. Lucky bastards. Though for some reason their great amount of money clouded their mind and they chose areas that were desolate, dead…and cold. Maybe it was to add excitement to the show for the warriors and leaders safely above. Guan-da' heard of a Blooding ground in this planet's lower polar regions that had been used by a community of wealthy clans for their private Blooding ceremonies. Something had happened to the area, and the territory was never stepped on again. Rumors reached his ears though – as a yautja could never keep a secret for long – that oomans had once again intervened and allowed the egg-bearing Kiandhe Amedha Queen to escape. The foolish student's answer to that had been to blow up the entire complex.

Once again proving that wealth and breeding had little to do with intelligence. One could be the greatest warrior in the galaxy but if you don't have the smarts to back up your brawn then one would soon find himself the biggest fool in the dance of the fallen gods.

Guan-da' found his legs pacing back and forth in front of the female ooman's dwelling. His scanners did not pick out heat signatures from the complex, but he knew better than to rely on his equipment alone. Yautja had a reason to reserve oomans for experienced hunters. Oomans were tricky, oomans were unpredictable. Give an unblooded student a burner in front of an ooman and the student would predictably charge headfirst towards the smaller being, but the ooman? No one knew what the ooman could do.

There hadn't been much activity from the dwelling. Nothing on scanner. All to quiet. Was the female even there at all? He took a few steps forward, then three steps back. It could be a trap, to lull him into a false sense of security and then hit him when he least expected it. Ah, smart ooman. Smart, tricky, little ooman. But this Hunter was smarter. Guan-da' went around the perimeter and used his thermal vision to see if he could pick up ghost traces of the ooman. Nothing. That meant that she hadn't been there in all morning. There was an odd scent in the air though, one like fuel burning. Yet if the fireplace was active then it would have shown up in the scan. Another ooman trick?

The shift suit gave a reassuring humming sound as it activated, covering him a blanket of the background. Trick or no, there was his entire honor in a painting he had to retrieve. His painting. His life. His honor. The pride that this spiteful female had the nerve to meddle with. She was mocking him! Ridiculing his courage and reputation! Oh, the nerve!

_Calm down. Focus._

Right. The painting.

He edged closer, the dwelling appearing closer in front of him with every step he took. His muscles tensed, ready to leap back at the slightest hint that the ooman was around. The slightest. Much to the appreciation of his already uneasy nerves, the ooman was nowhere to be seen. Guan-da' could not hear anything. He was silent. No garbled laughter, no hideous conversations with that large piece she would place on her ear, no tapping on her keyboard controls. Was she even inside? Guan-da' did not even have control over his arm as his clawed fingers curled over the tiny knob that if twisted properly would open the back entry way of the house. His mind screamed in protest, but it was too late, the door was opened.

Oh dear Paya he will die right now!

Paya must have decided that Guan-da's demise was scheduled for another day because the yautja was already inside and still no attack from the ooman.

Scanning…

Nothing. The scans yielded nothing. Guan-da's head swiveled back and forth, up and down, looking for the ooman with his wristblades prepared to strike, but the ooman was nowhere near him. In fact, she wasn't even inside!

What did he say before about fools and the dancing gods?

_Dance little Night Knife, dance_.

(-)

"Thanks for the ride," was the least Terry could say after the taxi driver had to put up with a combined two hours to and fro of bullshit conversation on a deactivated cell phone, though she was sure the $5 tip would be more than enough to keep him from giving her that stupid smile of his. He knew he was being bullshitted. They both did. But as long as no one said anything about it, then it might as well not exist.

He nodded and drove away, that stupid grin still on his stupid face.

Terry walked up to the front porch and stopped to rummage through her purse and find the keys. Her purse was full of crap; old doodles from napkins, receipts, candy wrappers, a condom… The keys were in there somewhere. She wasn't even sure why the hell she even locked the cabin in the first place. There wasn't a hint of civilization for miles around. What was she trying to keep out? Monsters?

(-)

It wasn't here either!

Guan-da' had been careful not to misplace or knock anything out of order as he rummaged the ooman's dwelling for the painting that was supposed to be exactly where she left it last time but now wasn't. As far as he could remember, it was located on the main floor next to the book shelves where the many dyes where located. He walked in, eager to just grab the painting and put as many miles as he could between the ooman female and him, but had to stop dead in his tracks when in its place was an empty area. Many other paintings had been misplaced also, but he didn't even notice that until he started looking for his own.

Where could it be? _Where could it be?_

The main floor yielded nothing. It was obvious the ooman had been rearranging the place for some obscure reason but it was a trip to hell itself for Guan-da'. Was that it? Was this hell? Had he someone contracted some odd ooman illness and died in his sleep and was now punished to wander around searching for the painting he will never find? No, no, he was alive. As much as he didn't want to, he had to find that painting. He had to. Never mind what the oomans would do to it, never mind what the Elders would do to it. It was his and he wanted it back. The female's own work were clumped in different areas with no visible reason, but Guan-da' had to quickly peek under each one of those white coverings to see if it was his. Every one that turned out erroneous yielded a frustrated growl on his part. By Paya, he could go insane soon!

He checked the upper levels. The ooman must have claimed her favorites for her own personal enjoyment because he found a fair amount of paintings in her chambers (the one with the strongest foul scent) but none of them were his. Now he was insulted. The ooman did not believe that his work had value? She was blind. His work was widely recognizable amongst his kind, esteemed for their vitality and symbolism. Obviously oomans had little idea of what art truly was, especially this specimen. Why, his painting should have been at the head of her chambers, decorating her wall like the valued piece it was. Foolish female. Well, her work wasn't so great either. Realism could only do so much. It took a true artist to capture to vigor of realism into symbols.

A noise caught his attention. It was a light screeching sound. It was dull from in here. It came from outside.

Guan-da' pressed his back against the window and slightly parted the curtain with the end of his elongated fingernail.

It was the ooman.

Guan-da' nearly stumbled to the floor at the sight. It was her! It was her! He dashed towards the door and was in the hallway when he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. Who knows what kind of horribale wrath this ooman female was capable of unleashing upon him! He was going to get caught! He was going to get caught! She's coming in!

A/N: Not bad for only two hours worth of work, eh?


	5. The Canvas Warrior

_A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and support._

**Disclaimer**: All known characters belong to their respective owner(s); unknown characters belong to me. I am not making any profit from this project. Any questionable and potentially offensive statements are for plot and development purposes only and are not necessarily the thoughts of the author. This story is purely to entertain.

**Note 1**: This chapter contains sensitive content.

Chapter 5 – The Canvas Warrior

The door creaked open and Terry walked in, sighing at finally arriving at a place where she could talk to herself and not be looked at as if she needed to be pointed to the nearest mental institution. Except that by this time she didn't really feel like talking anymore, she had done much of that in the taxi. If only she could just have reached over and wiped that ugly smug off the driver's face with alcohol and a burning match... Damn immigrant. The only joy of the entire ride was that he couldn't do a damn thing about the fact that she was spewing more crap from her mouth than out her ass. That's right, she thought when she caught him looking at her through the rear-view mirror, just be a good driver and do your thing and leave me the fuck alone. The raw appeal that is to face down one of these people and think, "I'm better than this blue-collared piece of shit." And why not? She saw these people in the lowest and most degrading positions a modern society had to offer to them: trash collectors, janitors, fast-food restaurant employees... And when she was exposed to the same group of people for so long – immigrants, lower class citizens, different race, etc – that are commonly in a servitude position for her, handling burgers, selling umbrellas in the street, cleaning the public areas, how can one not think that they are incapable to aspire to anything else? That she was, indeed, superior to them? Use their bodies as you pedestal. She was aware of the hardships these people have gone through and were going to have in the future; of feeding their families, of sending their children to school, of trying to make a living. She had seen it too many times on the news. She had been spoon-fed the information by National Geographic and the New York Times. She watched it silently in movies and documentaries, been exposed to it while walking through the streets of downtown. Terry had gone to the same public school as the children of these people, practically given the same educational opportunities as them, and yet she had come all the way to the top of her dreams. A respected artist, working for publishing houses and movie studios alike, whose pockets would never empty, and friendlier than most.

Still...

Stupid backwater public worker.

Terry closed the door with lock and key – keeping the creepy-crawly monsters out – and walked over to the refrigerator for a beer, sighing as she did so. Well that had been the biggest waste of four hours and seventeen minutes in her life; though not a total loss, there was plenty of beer to last her a week and a half. Yet there was a slight pang of anger in knowing she could have been doing more important things, like cleaning some of the guest rooms from spider web invasions, or arranging her pastels in alphabetical order, or –

Shit.

Sketches. The rest of the concept team had already sent in their second version of the monster's head for review and editing. WannaBManga-Ka, Pencil-Pusher, Crayola – Sam Hume, George D. Tarrero, and Elena Vaughn, respectively – already had their work evaluated. Terry was the last one left, even asking for an extension on the deadline, which was grudgingly granted. That deadline was about to be due tonight. If by 12 tonight Theresa Rossner did not send in her sketches for revision, then the monsters they created would pale in comparison to what kind of hell the editors would unleash on her rear end. They'd rip a new one on her and another mark against her added to her inconsistency. Damn desk jockeys. She doubted the fan boys and fan girls would burn down their building if those brats didn't get news and image update downloaded at the exact time that the media claimed it was going to be available on the official web site, but hey, they who signs checks make the laws. Maybe asking for another extensi – Terry couldn't even finish that thought, it was so absurd. She grabbed her sketchbook from the table and started flipping pages back and forth, looking for something, anything, that was relatively new to send in. Sure, that was about as half-assed as one could be in this line of work, but if she could just make the suits believe she had actually been doing her job instead of fooling around in the seven dwarves' house like a beer-guzzling Snow White then she could get them off her back long enough to do some real work. Whatever that may be. Terry growled under her breath. How pathetic were these samples? Semi-human heads with crocodilian maws, shark/gorilla hybrids…the squid-head illustration? Time to lay off the nature documentary marathons.

Terry stopped on a certain page, looking at the rather hunched, humanoid creature, claws, one of them holding a weapon, with a face containing two large tusks, like an elephant, protruding from the bottom of its jaw. This ugly bastard had been designed on a whim, most likely due to too much caffeine intake. It'll do. Terry ripped the page out, collecting the other sketches, and turned on the scanner next to the toaster, turning off any light that were currently on to avoid getting overheated circuits and be left in darkness again, as the scanner warmed up with an annoying high-pitched whine. Monsters, monsters, monsters…. The clock chimed a time seven hours before the deadline. It didn't matter. Anything could happen between the now and then; and she was rather enjoying the procrastinator's rush. Terry wasn't sure why she was smiling, sipping a beer, while at the same time imagining the angry suits threatening to withdraw her pay, but she decided to enjoy the feeling rather than question it. The scanner finished warming up and was ready to do what it did best. Terry placed the first sketch, making sure it was positioned parallel to the edge of the scanner, and pressed the Start button, still smiling. Monsters, monsters, monsters….

(-)

Guan-'da's old Leader and Teacher would have been proud at how well his former student, now Warrior, could maintain such a sense of calm during a situation that called for great danger. When others would have undoubtedly separated the _ooman's_ head from its shoulder before the creature was even aware of the Hunter's presence, he let the _ooman_ get comfortable in her own territory, her home turf, most likely to heighten the challenge. _Brave, brave Guan-da!_ he could hear them say, '_We had thought of you as one comfortable in the Elder's Arts, but Hunting female oomans? We greatly underestimated your courage!_...Or his stupidity. Foolish, foolish Guan-da! _O'diipu'tse_ foolish! Allowing the _ooman_ to become relaxed and at ease, it was at the height of carelessness for one such as he! _O'diipu'tse_! Other Hunters' stories told of how Warriors – greater than he'll ever be, they were sure to add – landed upon the _pyode amedha_ home world only to end up at the mercy of their self-destruct devices, even become trophies for _oomans_, or the sights they seen and the situations they experienced had been so distressing that even though the Hunters returned with their life, they came empty-handed and dead on the inside. Guan-da had shut his ears at such nonsense. Though some rumors had been based on truths, they were plenty of other Hunters, Unblooded even, that had reached the fabled home world and returned relatively unscathed mentally and physically. Guan-da would have been the one to return alive and well with his first _ooman_ skull, clean and ivory white, dangling proudly from his net sack. It was about time his wall contained such a trophy; the previous mating season had been a disaster, only gaining two females, while younger comrades had – to put it bluntly – _ral'lof_ four or more. The time spent in beseeching the Elders to be given the proper permission to Hunt on the _ooman_ home world. The energy spent, the blood spilled, the sweat lost Hunting dangerous prey to prove his worth in the eyes of his superiors. The Challenges he had to claim victory to be seen as controlled and balanced for such a tricky journey were both necessary and at the same time a joke. Those with greater instability had been allowed to go to the home world without so much as a display of trophies, their consent granted by the Elders due to their birth-rights, Clan-rights, and how much wealth they could provide in honor to the wise senior yautjas. Those ungrateful _solucemals_...

Guan-da would prove that blood-line and riches had little to do with success. He himself had originated from a humble background; though they were ship Leaders, High Priestesses, and Arbitrators' blood coursing through his veins, his matriarch _d'adilatan_, birth clan,was in the middle class at best. He could remember the spats with higher-ranking clans as his mother and sisters and grandmothers and aunts disputed against the other clan for watering holes or Hunting grounds. No matter how loud his mother and sisters and grandmothers and aunts roared, how much blood and limb was lost, how many victories they collected, they almost always were forced to submit to the superior clan. Only as an Ublooded student could he gain some sense of equality to the other young yautjas; and even then he was singled out when it was discovered that his medical record had been a forgery. Apparently young Ca'halzao Night-knife did not have as sharp a sight as the Leader had been lead to believe; some of the student's eye nervings were underdeveloped and could not function properly, effectively rendering him blind in darkness when his comrades could see well in such an environment. Ca'halzao nearly lost his life to this mistake. It would be a burden he will carry for the rest of his existence. Only his unique skill in design and the Arts had been able to save his worthless hide.

Guan-da shook his head at the unrequested memory. He would prove to them that he was a worthy Hunter, even with his faults. He would bring an _ooman_ skull on his own. No one to collaborate with. No one to aid him should he need it. But he was not brainless, this was a Hunt of great danger so great precautions had to be taken. He would land in an area safely away from the dangerous city areas, the hot spots of _ooman_ activity, and take down the first worthy opponent, return with the trophy, gain the respect of his comrades he so rightfully deserved, and conquer the many females he had missed the previous mating seasons...plus more. The others had pointed to military areas strategically located outside large _ooman_ settlements that had stories with delicious results. Not only were these _oomans_ also trained to kill – a tempting bargain for any Hunter – but their natural xenophobia, and this particular breed's discipline, made sure that no panic aroused from the rest of the population, making the task a relatively easy come-and-go run with minimal outside interference. Instead, Guan-da had allowed himself to become distracted with the Arts. Allowed himself to be lured by the female into a void of paranoia. And he was supposed to _kill_ such a creature? Comrades only returned with the males' skulls! And yet...Supposed he _did_ return with a female _ooman_ skull. No other Hunter he knew had one on their wall. How many male skulls equaled one female skull? Guan-da could double, even triple, the amount of females a breeding season; maybe be given his own Leadership! His own students, donning his own mark... Oh, the many suns that had been spent on designing his own Blooding mark just in case this opportunity ever arose! And here came that opportunity! There were three designs he was rather fond of and the thought of finally choosing one made him both proud and nervous. He liked the second one, with the _e'muh_ star design much like his own, but the third was easier on the wrist...

_Stop_.

This was not the time and definitely not the place to be lost in such thoughts. His original task to regain his painting was jeopardized, and worse, he was in danger because of it. There was a dangerous female in the lower are of the premises and he was in the upper area of the same location. He had to leave. Guan-da scanned the room he was in, her sleeping chamber. There were no exits beyond the door and the window. The window was too small for him to squeeze through without creating a clamor and the door would eventually lead downstairs where the female was located. If he dashed out quickly enough she might not get a chance to catch him, but she would be alerted of his presence, therefore making future attempts for the retrieval of his painting nearly impossible. His thoughts were disrupted when he heard a loud, fast-paced creaking of wood racing up the stairs. Something got stuck in his insides, like a stone knotted in his intestines, as he automatically moved to a semi-crouched, fighting stance. Though he appeared fierce and ready for battle, his tough form contradicted with the back of his quivering knees threatening to give up from under him.

The shadow appeared first, followed by its master.

It was _her_.

Guan-da raised his arm high, forcing back the urge to let out his great _ednarg _war cry to catch her by surprise, ready to rip the _ooman_ in two with his bare claw before she got the chance to notice he had been there the entire time. That ugly, pale face will soon be stripped from the creature's skull because he was Guan-da, Night-knife, not only an indulger in the Elders' Arts, but a skilled Warrior, a Hunter, and –

_Where are you going_?

The female had dashed into the room, not a hint of panic or fear in her face, merely excited and confused, her head swiveling back and forth as if she were looking for something. She had grabbed a nearly cylindrical object, long and metallic, and from it sprayed an odd-scented mist into the air. Some type of vapor-like incense or something similar, he thought. Then she suddenly got on her knees, dug her hand under the bed, and retreated two painting structures, both of them completed, filled with the attractive colors, and left one on the bed while taking the other back downstairs. She had completely ignored him the entire time as if he were not even present. Guan-da looked down at himself feeling rather confused and a bit offended...then growled. And why the _pauk_ wouldn't she had seen him? He was still cloaked! The cloaking mechanism had been activated as a safety precaution before he entered the _ooman's_ premises and had been left activated the entire time. At first he felt anger at his negligence – mistakes like these could get him killed – then relieved. And what if the female _had_ seen him and were forced to engage? Would he have been able to survive her might, much less gain the victory? Guan-da raised to the ceiling-obscured sky, breathing a sigh of relief while thanking whatever deity had made him forget to deactivate his cloak. He made a mental note to claim a kill in the merciful deity's honor.

Guan-da allowed himself a few spare moments to relax. He was alive for now, and that was all that truly mattered at the moment. The sun will rise for him again.

How odd, a curios scent of synthesized woodland was coming in through the filters of his mask…

(-)

_Where was it?_

Terry flipped up the protective cloth under the canvas. That wasn't it. She flipped another cloth only to be greeted by disappointment again. It had to be around here, she told herself, she had seen it around here. It was that hideous surrealist, semi-abstract painting with the prancing warriors and their spears and shit. Great, now that she wanted it, it was nowhere to be found. How many times had this same situation happened? Like clockwork. There had to be a science behind it or something...

Terri wanted to take a digital picture of the rogue painting and send it to her co-workers and bosses in the publishing house and studio. Maybe they would have some clue as to whom this hideous thing belonged to. And when she found out the name of this artist she would hunt him or her down and punch a hole through the canvas with their head! The nerve they had in thinking she would accept this piece of shit, or even that it belonged with the rest of her work. Of course, if she were to actually punch a hole through the canvas with their head she would more likely than not be arrested with some jail time. Oh wouldn't the press just _love_ that? "Homicidal Artist Attacks Kindred Soul!" "Battle of the Brushes!" Vulture-like bastards… So no, she wouldn't succumb to her more primal instincts and graciously return the painting to its rightful owner, making a fuss over the obvious talent that went into creating such a piece, and both parties will leave with a smile on their face and return to their beds like nothing happened –

Suddenly, Terri's head jerked up. Bed. The bedroom! Now she remembered; Terri had left that painting, along with some other smaller works, under her bed while she was dusting the house to protect them because there wasn't enough protective cloth to cover them all. With a speed more befitting to the cartoon road-runner of lost childhoods Terri raced up the stairs, creating enough noise to wake up the dead, before bursting into her room, nearly frantic, but mostly overjoyed at remembering. In fact, so overjoyed that she almost didn't notice the odd stench of road-kill bathed in vegetable oil that originated from the farther corner of her bedroom. There would be a day in the calendar marked with a memo to clean this room soon, but for now she counterbalanced it by dousing the place with a _generous_ amount of air freshener, pine scented. There was no need to think twice; the paintings were under the bed just where she left them. Terri reached down and got the first two canvas edges that managed to fall into her grasp and unceremoniously pulled them out. The first one was one of hers; a practice portrait of some exec's wife, but the second one, the second one was what she was looking for. The prancing warriors painting. Finally! With the odd painting safely tucked under Terri's arm, she raced downstairs, feeling like a conquering soldier. She was Theresa Rossner: Artist Extraordinaire, Finder of Lost Paintings, and Crazy Hermit Bitch!

It was a short victory. No one Terri had contacted knew the hand that created the painting. Her fellow co-workers coughed up a few names, but they were pretty sure these were not the artists she was looking for, but she could try them if she wanted to. Terri looked over the list of names scribbled on a nearby piece of scrap paper. Bunch of people she knew in the industry by name and work, not personally. Boy, _that_ would have been an interesting conversation: "Hello? Yes, this is Theresa Rossner calling from the Sartre Mountains. I don't know you, but I know your work, and you don't know me, but you know my work. Yes, that's right, Sartre Mountains. No, not from Fort Bridgeman; I'm not military. Anyways, I have with me a painting that may be yours by the careless way paint was applied, almost as if the brush was having a seizure, and depicts a bunch of warrior-like subjects dancing around with spears as if they were on crack. Does it sound familiar? What medication? Well, I was just wondering and – _What_? …Your mom!"

Yep, that sounded like her. Even the "You mom!" bit was something that would have come out of her mouth. Damn, she'd be nicer if other people weren't such dicks. At least up here she could avoid the worst of the talentless human specimens that cooed over her works like sea gulls over a dump site. As if she had time to play hostess to a pack of drooling morons who couldn't even hold a pencil correctly. Where was Ashley? She needed someone to point at said morons with when they passed by them as they sat at the café, sipping on drinks she could barely pronounce, whispering into each other's ears about the poor females that wasted their time birthing brats that would never appreciate a mother's sacrifice when they could just dump the kid in a daycare or have their tubes tied – whichever they could afford – and actually work on building a fucking career instead of being a house wife and caretaker. That's what immigrants were for anyways. Don't have time to do your files and watch the brat at the same time? Hire a Venezuelan maid; dime a dozen. Ashley wanted to marry, but not have kids. Good for her. It was good to have friends that were established enough to understand that having a kid is the reverse of personal and economic growth. One didn't need to look far. Just look at the women in business suits that talked in that incoherent babble to their children as if they had recently suffered a stroke. How could anyone expect them to give their absolute best and focus on their jobs when they _had _to downscale to the mentality of a two year old? And all that hard-earned money? Gone. Spent on things that a child clearly could live without; no wonder these kids grew up to be self-centered materialists. Nope, not the life for Terri. In fact, she made damn sure no unexpected "surprise" was going to put an ugly hiatus in _her_ career; her tubes had been cut since she was 24.

Terri traced her fingers over the canvas, allowing the thick bumps and bulges of the paint to stimulate her fingertips. It felt rather good, like caressing a bumpy sea stone, uneven, but smooth. The paints were vibrant and seemed to make the little warriors spring to life and dance right in front of her eyes. Abstract art had that effect; when done correctly, that is. She could almost hear drums and chants in the back of her mind, but such primal music seemed almost out of place when depicted against these swaying brushstrokes. Terri's face formed a small scowl. Speaking of children…

"A six year old could have done better."

The clock chimed midnight. Terri giggled childishly, placing down what had to be the fourth beer tonight on the kitchen table where she sat. No angry suits for her, she'd turn in her work for evaluation a good few hours ago. Disappointment _can_ be a good thing, when it didn't involve one's self. Yeah, disappoint yourself, you bastards… Terri picked up the can again, shook it to hear the wet splish splash of whatever liquid was left inside, and took another gulp. She really ought to stop drinking so much for no apparent reason. Maybe next Thursday, if she remembered. Granted, a beer with friends over a football game or at _Charlie's_ made the alcohol taste better tenfold, but hey, she was in a cabin in the middle of a lot of trees and a lot of beer that she brought over, and…you know, she couldn't just _waste _it. This had a point, she knew it had a point, but if it made sense or was even relevant wasn't important right now, not that she remembered.

"What are _you_ looking at?" She asked with slurred words.

The odd painting did not respond.

Terri nodded. "That's what I thought."

That horrible painting had been staring at her since she sat down, and it was only on the third beer when the warriors started to dance. Yeah, dancing. With music and everything. That same stupid melody with the drums and the chanting had been echoing in the back of her mind and it got louder and louder and louder with each empty can until she could practically believe someone was blasting the fucking music through the fucking windows. They danced. Dancing, dancing, dancing… And not just in her mind; they were freaking moving across the canvas. They swirled and spun, throwing those toothpick-sized spears into the air of red and green and blue, mixing the colors and turning them into purples and oranges, and the diminutive warriors caught them before they hit the wooden floor of the canvas. It was…entertaining. A fucked up liver did interesting things to the mind, and hell, she'd seen worse. Need she remind herself of the Don Quixote incident? Heh, at least she could remember that drunken stupor of pretending to be the fabled wandering knight; in fact, it had been her inspiration for her "Celtic Wires" piece which depicted a sort of cybernetic medieval soldier. The rights for the character had been bought and it was now a continuing novel by the same name. Some sort of science-fiction piece of shit… Teenagers were the main fan base. How come adults rarely got into the beauty of realistic fantasy? It's not as if it was so far-fetched that it was downright implausible; rocket scientists with some sort of writing skill were being hired to come up with novels to explain how a human could stay alive 50 years in cryogenic sleep, or a ship the size of Manhattan could move through Einstein space. They had the explanations right there and _still_ they wouldn't eat the shit.

The little colorful warriors gave no comforting explanation; they just danced as if they too were drunk. One tiny warrior broke away from the group, still dancing like an idiot and chanting in a nearly contradicting deep voice, and danced its way out of the canvas border. It danced in mid air, spear high above its head, looking at Terri, then it began to dance its way into the darkened living room.

Terri's brow raised as much as her intoxicated face muscles would allow her to.

"Where are _you_ going?" There was a slight undertone of anger in her voice. She didn't give permission for the tiny bastard to leave! Get back in your canvas where you belong!

Terri followed the floating imp into the living room, and stumbled over the coffee table in doing so. Her mind screamed that she was falling, but the message was drowned by the sounds of the drums and chants. She held her hands out to steady herself, all in a matter of a measure of time that couldn't even be seconds, and crashed against something hard. Her body did a very good impression of a bouncy ball ricocheting against a brick wall, and she fell on her rear end with a loud gasp escaping her mouth, then she roared. Except, she didn't roar, but she heard a roaring sound nonetheless so it had to be hers; there was no one else in the entire cabin except herself and the canvas warrior in front of her.

The canvas warrior.

A soft chirping sound was heard, like a frightened bird. Terry cocked her head to the side, squinting her eyes. She didn't remember the spear-wielding imp to be _this_ big. It was supposed to be a little representation of an ancient warrior, and though it smelled as if were centuries since it had a decent bath, it was anything but little now. It towered over her, with wide shoulders and a deep, barrel-like chest, and stunk as if it had rolled on animal dung recently. Terri got on her feet. The warrior took a step back, chirping. She stared at the canvas subject for a few hesitant moments and was the first to break the silence with a, "God, you're fucking ugly."

She pointed at it. "You are fucking ugly…" she repeated with more of a sigh. The canvas warrior-now-turned-giant looked left and right with its arms raised in alarm, black strands of something thick on its head fanning out with each turn, smacking into each other and like wet slabs of meat beating a cat…Ok, maybe not exactly like mentioned visual, but it was pretty damn close. Damn it, how did it get so big? She liked it when it was tiny; at least it didn't smell as bad. Terri raised both her hands to her face, pressing in her eyes with her fingers. God, she needed a beer…or maybe she had too many beers… There was something even she couldn't deny though, and that she doubted that was a face even its mother could love. There were some sort of finger-like limbs coming out of the side of its mouth, two on top and two on the bottom, parting the lips apart, revealing a mouth that a soldier on drugs would probably like to stick his dick into if he didn't mind the sharp teeth scraping his balls, but hey, maybe he likes that sort of thing. Sharp intakes of breath were coming in and out of this odd pussy-mouth. Hell, she'd be tired too if she just danced her way into reality. There were no eyes, only whitish orbs with an odd color for an iris sunken in a pair of black eye sockets. The top of its head was shaven clean, only a glisten from the kitchen light gave hint that it was dry like a rhinoceros' skin, but at the same time wet. Bony protrusions extended from its brow to surround the skull in an odd crown, but this was no king, in fact, it shouldn't even be here.

"You!" Terri said, pointing a threatening finger at it. The warrior gave a small yelp, lowering its head, as its mouth/finger protrusions came together at the center of the mouth. "Get back in your canvas, now!"

The last thing she needed were tiny warriors turning into giants and running about in her house. Their crazy dancing would knock down everything and then she would be the one that would end up picking everything up by herself. She hoped this warrior did not start dancing all of a sudden. The warrior made a soft chirping sound, but otherwise made no other movement.

Terri scowled, then her threat turned into a whine. "C'mon, I said back in the freakin' painting with you with the rest of the little dancing people. C'mon! Please?"

Wait… A better idea had come to mind. What a perfect opportunity. Terri raced into the kitchen, grabbed the odd painting, and came back into the living room where she found the canvas warrior kneeling behind the sofa. When it heard her approaching it raised to its full height again, growling softly. Before her beer-induced fantasy could react, Terri shoved the painting into its chest with random loose pieces of paper and a sketchbook to go with the artwork. If she couldn't get rid of the painting, then _it_ could get rid of the painting for her!

"Here! Just take the freakin' thing!" She shoved at the warrior, pushing him towards the front door. It reluctantly moved its feet towards the directions she wanted it to go, but still held back like a stubborn burro. God this bastard must weigh a ton! Not that she was surprised, with all that paint that was applied to the canvas it must easily weigh, well, a lot. "It's not mine, it's not Elena's, it's not anybody's! You danced out of the painting so now it's yours! Ha! Take that in your pipe and smoke it, you colorful chanting bastard!"

Terri raced in front of the warrior and unlocked the door after fighting against the locks to open them, cursing to the high heavens in the process. The door swung open, a breath of cold autumn air sweeping into the warm interior. Placing her hands once again on the warrior's back, Terri pushed the oversized dancing midget out of her house and closed the door behind it with a loud slam that made her wince in pain. That had not been a good idea. Damn wind currents. Terri made her way towards the sofa, feeling rather satisfied with herself and at the same time terribly sleepy, and let her body fall onto its cushiony embrace face first, the sound of her overworked liver trying to purge her body from four servings of beer lulling her to sleep.

_Ha, ha…I won,_ were her last thoughts for the night.

(-)

Guan-da', standing in front of the female's dwelling, stared at the painting in his grasp. _His _painting in _his_ grasp. He should be joyous, but there was something terribly, terribly _wrong_ about the actual obtainment of said item.

_Euq a odasa?_

What the hell had just happened?


	6. Paper Cuts

A/N: Holy SHIIIIIIIT! An update! Why the long-ass hiatus? Life. It does things to you, and not usually the way you planned it to be. So I had to attend to life first, stop pretending I was nerd, and become another drone of society. But, y'know, I much preferred my nerd life. Much like the life I breathe BACK into this fic! By golly, I will finish this! Your continued support, and seemingly endless patience, is very much loved.

**Disclaimer**: All known characters belong to their respective owner(s); unknown characters belong to me. I am not making any profit from this project. Any questionable and potentially offensive statements are for plot and development purposes only and are not necessarily the thoughts of the author. This story is purely to entertain.

Paper Cuts

The lights whirred softly, their glow even softer inside the small living quarters where Guan'da sat atop his sleeping mattress, legs crossed as he attempted to both find reason to the female's odd mannerisms and make sense of what he currently held in his hands. The latter took preference. The painting – his painting – rested against the metallic edge of the mattress, the many papers and parchment pads he held were being flipped from one side to the other, then swiftly cast aside so he could look at the next paper and its contents. His breath was ragged, but not out of injury or fear. It was exaltation. He knew he would've been content with the return of his canvas. Having it would be enough. Instead he received an invaluable amount of treasures. Paper gold.

It was hers. Her work. Her primary drawings – similar to the sketches he practiced on the back of old leather sheets before attempting the trickier tattoo designs on flesh. They were messy and to the uncultured yautja eye would merely seem black – and blue and red – scribbles on a parchment, but he… Oh, he knew their true worth. A hundred and one thoughts each jockeyed for position on which he would focus on first. The parchments depicted the occasional study of an earth animal, even going so far as to have clipped a sort of snapshot of the real beast at the corner. He chirped contently, rocking back once as he compared the snapshot to the scribble. They were the same! The anatomy, the proportions – flawless! The color was missing, but it was a trivial detail that was discarded. They were the same. The human had been able to capture an image of a beast, but it on paper, and give it life of its own. She was truly female in that essence, he mused. How apt, she was able to give life on a dead parchment whereas he could only mimic the image of a dead beast on living flesh and still not come close to the sense of authenticity. His lower tusks came together, throat rumbling in an attempt to add voice to the creature; though wondered if a hoofed quadruped with udders would snarl.

He carefully discarded the parchment aside then tilted his head at the current scribble looking up at him. His brows furrowed at the center, yet lifted slightly at the ends.

She was looking at him.

It was her. The ooman female. The tormentor of these past days was staring at him through the paper. Her tresses seemed slightly longer, but it was her. He would recognize those beady eyes anywhere. The eyes. They were hers. Yes, he could recognize the shape – even remember the color. He could mentally add the color himself, a dark tree bark color with an undertone of dirty grass.

He flared his mandibles and snarled at her – at the paper – and half expected her to respond to the mockingly aggressive display.

A finger slid down her face, almost feeling the bumps and faint crevices of her plain features on the paper as if he were truly touching her person. His upper mandibles raised slightly in contentment. He could see her, sitting on the tall stool, hunched over the odd structure supporting the canvas with the delicate fingers wrapping over the stencil that added the color, the other hand holding a dirty rag or a flat bowl that contained more dyes. The memory came from the time he had caught her amending his work, but instead of rousing anger from him this time there was an undertone of fondness in the thought. He replaced the image with himself, hunched over the back of an elder male of higher rank, though they were both sitting cross legged on the floor atop of some padding, a tattooing stencil in one hand and a flask of black dye in the other. It was the same image.

And she was staring at him. He found fascination in the thought that she would have the bravado to illustrate herself. In his world, it was the one who commissioned the work that was praised for the beauty of it, not the artist who illustrated it. Much like the individual who made the shot was praised for the aim, not the gun. Artists were tools. A middle stepping stone from having bare skin to dyed one. Yet she clearly thought herself above so if her arrogance made her portray herself as unique. In a sense of condescension and superiority. It was a silent claim, and it said: "I did this because I can and I have the skill. Not you."

He looked over at where his painting rested, propped against the edge of the bed. There was no singular portrayal of any individual – especially not himself. He was the artist; it was the warriors in the painting that were the true icons.

And yet.

Who else could've done so if not himself? Could a warrior have held a tattooing stencil as secure as he? Could Elders, in all their infinite wisdom, have been able to tell apart a line from a form? His breath deepened. He knew where those thoughts were leading him. He had sipped from the cup of arrogance before – and the taste was sweet.

He looked forward, eyes darting to the left. Where there any Elders around? No. His mandibles quivered as his throat accommodated the words uttered.

"You are…" he started, then halted, bringing the pad closer to his chest as if it were a shield from an unknown ghost. "…You are imbeciles. Philosophies could not differentiate a sphere from a circle."

His entire body tensed momentarily, as if a hand would strike him from the heavens themselves for his cheeky claim. Yet no strike came. No ghost hand made itself known. The muscles relaxed, and so did his throat which uttered the next audacious claim.

"Warriors can hold a blade, but they drop the lightest of stencils – clumsy in their hands!"

He looked down at his own hands. The tips were permanently black due to the many dyes he had handled and had consequently spilled against his fingers. But none could hold the stencil as well as he. None as well as he. The hands closed into a fist, then opened. He reached over and swiftly grabbed the edges of his painting, lifting it above his head as mandibles flared.

"I did this!"

He repeated the claim when there was no retaliation.

"I did this! I painted as freely as any would! Because I can!"

The words were simple, but held a powerful meaning to him. He had allowed to grow prideful, to claim ownership over his skill as his own doing and not just due to divine intervention. It wasn't just luck, or that the deities had bestowed him a gift. He could create his marks because he knew how. It was a good feeling. A slightly dirty feeling of arrogance blended with the delicious sensation of achievement. He curled the painting to his chest with as much tenderness a female would to a pup. The painting was his. He created it. Just as the ooman female had created her own marks on the parchments and cloths. They were creators. And in that thought he found sympathy – and a slightly odd sense of companionship.

(-)

The blanket made mound shifted slightly, a soft, muffled moan gurgling from within. With a wide upwards swoop of her arms Terry removed the thick blanket off her person, the same hand coming up to rub her slightly swollen eyes and thudding head. She groaned and sat up, cupping her chin and rubbing her jaw as she offered a blank stare forward but at nothing in particular, eyelids blinking lazily. So she had overdrunk her limit – lightweight as she is – and had woken up on the floor. At least if the time frame that she didn't remember never came back she could feel comforted in the thought she knew where she had been the entire time; in the cabin. Alone. Just the way she liked it.

She rose on uneasy legs, as wobbly's as a newborn calf's, but managed to shake her equilibrium back to its senses and made her way to the kitchen to prepare coffee – and by looking out the window she could start with lunch if she felt like it. The small machine was already whirring to life, dripping its brown nectar in a steady droplet stream into a plastic mug. Terry frowned when she saw her sketches and materials scattered on the floor as it would mean she had been rather careless in her drunken stupor and would have to pick it up.

The silence was quite literally shattered when the phone rang. She grimaced, hissing softly at the irritating screech of the phone as she brought a hand to her ear and the other whipped forward to pick it up and answer.

"What…!" she hissed, her mood soured by the annoyance.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded just as displeased. "Whoa. Good day to you too." Ashley seemed to have taken offense to Terry's sharp greeting.

Terry groaned, leaning forward against the counter to rest an elbow on its edge, the hand holding her cheek, and the head it belonged to, up. "Augh… Sorry, sorry. Just, that… Slept in. Whatever. What do you want?"

"Hmph. Look, I sent you some correspondence. Remember that you wanted those new Ricardo Calzado books for your reference library? They should've arrived at your P.O. box today."

Terry nodded, but eventually figured the other woman would need vocal acknowledgement. "Right, right. Thanks. I'll, eh… I'll go pick 'em up later. Taxi should take about forty minutes to get here if I call the service now."

"You know if you walked there it'll take you an hour and a half or so to get to the town and save you the money. The exercise will do you good and whatnot."

"And risk the chance of running into hikers? Those friendly "admire the forest in its fall glory with me" kind of individuals? They're gonna be crawling all over the place soon. No. No, I want the damn taxi. More direct. Point A to point B and back to point A. No need for socialization in between."

She could hear Ashley offer a blend of a sigh and a chuckle. "Suit yourself, Terrs. I just did my job, as any good friend and assistant would do."

"Mhm. That you did. Anything else…?"

"One thing. You're expected back by next month for the convention in Los Angeles. Your hotel and booth have been reserved."

"Good thing I have a whole month to worry about it. Good day, Ashley."

"Right. Good day."

And Terry hung up.

She breathed a long, drawn-out sigh as she ran her fingers through her hair, gripping the back of her neck and massaging the stiff muscles there. Right, she had a life back in the city. The world had not forgotten about her! Convention, convention, interview, workshop and studio, and then another convention before the movie's release. Her end of the work was completed for now. She had sent the sketches. Hollywood will have to eat it, digest it, and toss the steaming pile back at her with all the revisions and edits they would want to see before the final approval. Eyes wandered to the messy papers on the floor, as well as to a few pencils. Sketches. Drawing. She felt like drawing – if only for a bit, for herself. She couldn't even remember the last time she did that.

The coffee machine dinged the end of its cycle and Terry picked up the mug, offering a soft sip to its contents. She turned around, leaning against the counter as she stared lazily out the window where fall was already making its fast approach. It was about as appealing to draw as a bowl of fruit. And she didn't want to draw a bowl of fruit. Thoughts and ideas raced, examined and discarded in her mind with less than a second spent on each of them. One idea passed and went, and she had liked it. She retrieved it and held it still in her thought. It was the ugliest thing that had been recently spawned in her head. So it was perfect. That ugly bestial creature from her dream. Dreams were a great source of inspiration but they didn't last long in the pocket of memory unless it was recorded, be it with words or lines. The latter was her preference.

Setting the mug on the counter she walked over to the thickest pile of papers on the floor and picked a few papers up, as well as a couple of pencils now that she had her spine in a painful position so early in the afternoon, and returned to the counter as she brought a stool closer and sat on it. With the occasional sip to her mug her hand otherwise kept scribbling on the paper, the other hand supporting her head and occasional gripping the edge of the parchment so that it didn't move when she had to erase. The image in her mind flickered, already beginning to seep away into disregard. It kept changing, molding into different shapes that were similar but not the same. As if keeping in one's mind the image of an animal; a dog, but that dog shifting and blending into different breeds of dogs. It was still a dog, but it didn't look like the dog you first had in mind.

The pencil was set down, and she picked up the paper to admire… a very similar illustration to what she had sent yesterday. Yet this was the first time she could truly see what she had sent. It wasn't anything to be disappointed over, that was for certain. It was bestial, ugly, and still humanoid enough to have a man in a plastic costume play the part for the closed shots in the film. The one detail she didn't like were the eyes. They looked too human. Too obvious there was a man in a costume. Monsters like this one had nothing human about them. Possessed no better sense and no soul.

Monsters had no souls.


	7. Mechanical Pencil

_**Author's Note:** Not dead, and neither is this story. We're almost done. Just one (maybe two) more chapters to go. I will be opening a Q&A as part of the last chapter to question any queries and uncertainties relating to this story and their characters (I know someone mentioned Guan's eyesight, and many are not happy with Terry); so if you would like to have anything clarified by the author please feel free to comment/question it._

_**Disclaimer**: All known characters belong to their respective owner(s); unknown characters belong to me. I am not making any profit from this project. Any questionable and potentially offensive statements are for plot and development purposes only and are not necessarily the thoughts of the author. This story is purely to entertain._

Chapter 7 - Mechanical Pencil

The mornings on this planet , especially on this part of the planet, were cold. They were dreadfully cold for him, and though the sun managed to warm up the woods as the day progressed, the heat from its sun seemed to have lessened. This meant that either the planet's day star was dying at an alarming rate, or the planet had seasons and he was in the cold one. He knew the concept of seasons; learned about them in Hunting worlds when they, his clan and he, would first arrive and it was hot and pleasant, and then return on another time on the same world and find it cold and uncomfortable. There were no such drastic changes on the Homeworld. There were certainly changes in light intensity and humidity, and variations in temperature. However, these seasons usually teetered from "more wet"; when the rains came and would flood the valleys: the cold seasons. And then there were the "less wet", when the rains became air and clung as thick blankets underneath the canopies of the forests that trapped the heat. He liked those seasons - missed them, even.

He did not like this alien planet's seasons and often found himself wondering why the humans chose to settle here when there were warmer areas in this world in which to dwell. There was a human outpost farther south, with more wood and stone dwellings, such as the females huddled close together that suggested a lot of humans lived there; an entire community, or clan, of them.

Maybe, like she, they chose to live here, but it was just as likely that they did not. Were they escaping or hiding? Banished? A curious thought he allowed himself to muse on through the wet hiss his mask made when it was lifted just above his cheeks just barely covering the top mandibles as he brought a fist-sized chunk of dried meat to his mouth; sharp teeth easily slicing off a piece that was only chewed on sparingly. It was just enough to make it moist and soft, before it was swallowed. The mask lowered again with a click and he exhaled. There was only so much of this cold air he could breathe before the sting scratched his throat and lungs and forced coughs.

Guan-da' was crouched on what had quickly become his favorite perch; the boulder at the side of the human female's dwelling that offered a good view of inside when the colorful cloths that shielded sight were parted. Though he had accepted the female´s return of his painting as a graceful, mutually-respecting truce, he still wasn't daft enough to let his guard down completely. For all he knew she must have known he had been there the entire time and had just grown tired of his snooping, sparing his life not so much as a display of mercy, but more so as a warning to not tread nearby again. She wanted her privacy, he could respect that. At least from a distance.

He kept his half-crouched, half-sitting position as he maintained rapt attention to the soft, golden-yellow glow of light from inside. Lifting his mask again, he took another bite and made certain to not breathe in as he did so to prevent any coughing. He didn't want to make a sound; not when she was creating.

The female kept a consistent schedule, which was good for Guan-da' because he liked this consistency; it meant he could settle into a schedule too.

The schedule was thus: The ooman woke late in the morning, which meant Guan-da' could go hunt for food and gather water – later mixed with a chemical that made it safe to drink. By the time the food was consumed and water drunk she would have already eaten her day's ration and started either on a chore or creating, and he would be at the rock, hidden from her sight with the blanket of background to cover him. Some days she would be working or doing things other than what he wanted her to do, and those days were very long and frustrating, and when dusk made its approach he departed to return to the warmth of the ship before the planet's uncomfortable cold reminded him why he hated this place. Other days she would be creating, either sitting on a stool and hunched over a table with a parchment, or sitting on a stool and hunch over that tall wooden structure that held the canvas – or something that looked like a very large, flat tome that held loose pieces of parchment held by tightly coiled rings. He liked those days. Except this one. She was creating, yes, and it was on the canvas-holder, which he liked best because it being upright meant he could see it better, but she was doing it wrong.

He did not look like _that_.

(-)

It did not look like _that_.

Terry sighed as she sat back, which meant upright, on the stool, cupping her chin with her free hand and absentmindedly smearing some black charcoal on her cheek with her thumb. Fuck, it wasn't looking right, not that a sketch was supposed to look anything more than a brain barf on paper, but she wanted something good to work with at least, and not only was it not looking good, it was not looking _right_. She glanced up at the top right corner of the canvas where the sketch paper was pinned. It was the sketch of the other day, the one with the canvas-warrior-thing-whatever it was, a partially done scribble that somehow seemed more like what she wanted it to looking like than the refined attempt of today. Eyes switched from the sketch to the drawing pad, then to the sketch, then the pad again. The only thing that looked reasonably okay was the entire lower jaw; a fleshy, break-like protrusion with sharp teeth that had two elephantine tusks jutting out from the sides that curled inwards, almost touching but not quite, like an upside-down saber cat's skull –

Huh. That could work.

In the minuscule second she mentally mentioned the saber cat she saw her halfway made creature's lower jaw and the saber cat's saber teeth connect with a click that was as good as the chemistry of the two ideas. Yeah... The charcoal returned to the drawing pad with renewed enthusiasm, trying to catch that idea on paper before it disappeared, as was ideas' nature to do. A moment of brilliance that quickly muddled into something unrecognizable.

As her hand made the charcoal scratch the paper pad in wandering loops so did her mind wander as to where the hell she had put her sketchbook. It had been missing for a few days now and though she had looked up and down, and up and down again, and even some left and right through the house that damn thing just wouldn't let itself be found. Fuck. It had almost been full, too. She couldn't find that horrible, ugly painting either and when she had found the door open, unlocked, that morning she figured she must've thrown it into the woods somewhere. Which meant that – damn – she could've just as well thrown her sketchbook out too. Well, she hoped it made a damn good nest for magpies or squirrels.

_Whatever._

Still... The sketchbook was hers. Sure, there were only scribbles and studies, but there were several pieces in there she had grown fond of that she was going to use for another time, like another personal project or pitch it to her studio to see if it could fit somewhere, or even to sell for quick money, but now neither of those options were possible for the moment because though she could quickly come up with something else there'd always be that nagging, annoying tick in the back of her head that wanted to really remember what those pictures, those ideas, looked like, but wouldn't be able to recall. Then have that equally annoying feeling that though what she drew was close it was not what she had sketched. Like a damn itch that couldn't be scratched. What she had sketched before was good shit, and what she could come up later would be just okay shit; and though everyone else would like it and coo over it _she'd_ know it was shit. She wanted her skethbook back, dammit.

At least she had this sketch. No longer did she question the nature of her fantasies or the cause of such, it was all mental, all psycological stuff that played with one's mind. Being drunk was like being scared, in a way; shadows that flicked on a response that was nothing in reality, but you ended up feeding it more the more scared you got and it the end you end up running for no reason, just because you _thought_ it was there. Terry had just learned to roll with whatever her mind fed her instead of questioning it. Monsters were nothing to be scared of because she had created them; they weren't real.

Dirty grass green eyes narrowed in concentration. Again, it was important that the sketch look – and _feel_ – right as well as close to her idea as possible because not only was she supposed to like it, but she had to make others like in that singular, excruciating judgemental span of a second called _first impressions_. Especially to that special species of vultures called _producers_ that had no damn talent but a lot of say and swagger. They wrote the zeros on the checks so this was as close to prostitution as any artist got. Actually, fuck that, it was prostitution except that instead of sex, art was traded.

The sketch started simply enough – two ideas slapped together – and eventually started to mold on its own as though it was the paper that was holding the stencil and guiding over its surface and not the other way around. She was just keeping that charcoal upright and letting it be guided in quick strokes like some sort of freaky Ouija board. She let _it_ happen, and whatever that _it_ was that was letting _it_ happen turned out to be a sharper, more refined version of that original scribble. It sort of looked like a fucked up baboon with a flat, nose-less face, saber teeth on its upper jaw and tusks jutting forward on the sides of the lower jaw. A wild mane of thick, black hair sat atop its head that cascaded down the back. When the jaw closed the saber teeth would fit neatly in between the tusks. Fleshy cheeks fell over the tusks. It wasn´t handsome, but it was _right_.

(-)

It was so wrong.

His frustration increased in the form of fast mandible clattering as he forced himself to play audience to a creator that was mocking him. There was no denying of the talent she possesed for recreating what she saw to intimate perfection and detail, so he was not exactly certain for the reason behind this... _blasphemy_. He thought they were in truce! Maybe this was her form of retaliation; mockery through art. _Ouch._ His tusks were not teeth, his mandibles were not tusks, and was that _hair_ on his head? Clawed fingers twitched in the air, hands high above his head and forward while he moved his hands in a way that suggested he was trying to control the stencil she held from where he was, far away, or at least really, really wanting to; fingers curling in the same way she held the stencil and trying oh so very hard to control her hand and amend that horrible caricature. He was forcing himself to stay put less he barge through the domicile and have his final, courageous act before he was mauled by that female be snagging that stencil out of her hand, shoving her out of the way, and show her on that canvas what he _really_ looked like...!

Even if he had no idea what he really looked like.

Both hands lowered; the taloned nails of one making a near inaudible rasping sound when he raked his fingers down the sides of his metal mask. There were few, if any, reflective surfaces on a yautja ship, or that any yautja would possess. The hulls were dull, as was the armor, and the most reflective thing he had was a hand-wide piece of flat metal that he had polished until it mirrored what was in front of it; such as the parts of his skin – or on the skin of others – that required more eyes to guide the ink blade true as it would have been difficult to tattoo his own chest otherwise, especially his neck, but it had never occurred to him to have that metal look at him, his face. He knew what he looked like, relatively, as he was yautja and looked as other yautja, and yatuja looked different from each other enough to be told apart by sight; though scent was a more reliable confirmation. But no warrior had developed to tell each other's faces apart as a primary form of recognition since the masks were rarely removed outside of one's own clan. Thus, he could tell his clanmates apart from each other by sight, yes, but could he be able to tell apart himself from his clanmates? What did he, Ca'halzao, _look_ like?

Ah. Dangerous thoughts. Individuality was frowned upon and not something ingrained in his culture. Other clans and warriors knew one by name, not sight. It was more accurate to describe, and recognize, a stranger by their accomplishments rather than their appearance. The pack was all, the group was all, the clan was all. Though his clan, the _Goib'te_, consisted of thirty-seven strong individuals and all Hunted together, his pack were just two others – the fast-footed Sarobe and Ler'ke'me of the dual-swords; and they were waiting for his return, or his lack thereof.

Dark yellow eyes glanced to the window, what was beyond it, and returned his attention to the human and her representation of himself. And scowled. He certainly did not look like _that_.

An urgent beeping chirped through his left gauntlet and the sudden severing of his attention because of it was so abrupt that he nearly lost his footing, and mentally chastised himself for allowing his thoughts to string him away from focus. It was becoming more common to find himself thinking, and not down the path of linear, focused thoughts that lead to a goal. Instead, it was thoughts he shouldn't be thinking about until he was old and brittle in body. Philosopher's thoughts. Maybe he was born too young.

Guan-da' brought his gauntlet up, flipping the protective cover open to confirm what he already knew those beeps meant: Time was short.

The Elders did not care if Guan-da', or any Hunter, ever returned from these private Hunting excursions, but they did care that nothing of these visits was left behind as evidence for the natives. There was a certain _grace period_ allotted for each Hunter, a reasonable amount of time for them to catch prey and return to their Mother Ship, and after that time was spent their ships and wrist devices would engage in a simultaneous countdown that would trigger self-destruction. Self-destruction could be activated manually by the Hunter if he found himself cornered, but distant activation was a precautionary fail-safe.

Guan-da' pressed a sequence of codes, a return signal that asked for a countdown delay, but an immediate, and angry, return beep confirmed that not only was his code firewalled, but knew that it would not have been possible to grant. All Hunters obliged by the same rules. He had four and a half of this planet's standard day cycles to return with his trophies.

C'jit! _Trophies_.

He snarled loudly. If he had been mentally finger-wagging before for daydreaming then he was outright kicking himself for this blunderous oversight. So distracted he had grown in observation that he had forgotten about what he had come here for to begin with! Embarrassed and shamed the snarl lingered and slowly faded as his thoughts returned to a strange, linear focus, eyes narrowing when they focused on the female just beyond the glass as he slowly rose. He would amend his err; he was a _Hunter_. His status against Ler'ke'me depended on it.

There was only one thing left to do.

Dual blades snapped forward with a dry rasp.


End file.
